


The Devil's in the Flowers

by jibberjabber13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Bar Room Brawl, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Business Rivals, Drunken Flirting, Enemies to Lovers, Florists, Footnotes, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Making Out in the Bentley (Good Omens), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Self-Esteem Issues, This fic was brought to you by: every romcom trope I could think of, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2020-11-26 12:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibberjabber13/pseuds/jibberjabber13
Summary: For the last eleven years, A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers has provided quality bouquets and services to the people of London. Whether it’s weddings or funerals, lovesickness or heartbreak, Aziraphale can find the perfect flower for you. But when Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things opens up across the street, everything starts to change—and Aziraphale will be damned if he’s going to let this no-good, profit-hungry Crowley steal all his business.(Or, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley are rival florists working in the same neighborhood).





	1. In the Beginning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning, God created two florists destined to hate one another upon sight…and placed them right across the street from each other.

Mix the daylilies with a splash of lavender, add an extra rose in the center, and presto—the perfect bouquet. Aziraphale stepped back from the counter with a delighted smile, rubbing his hands together as he inspected his handiwork. It was done just in time for his favorite customers, a mother and son pair that stopped in every weekend to pick up a fresh set of flowers for their coffee table. According to his watch, they should be arriving soon.

Aziraphale looked out the front window of his shop and let out a content sigh. He loved Sunday mornings, the way they unfolded lazily like delicate petals, with slow sunrises and people ambling down neighborhood streets. Rays of light shone through the glass, reflecting off the vibrant colors of his floral displays in a dazzling rainbow.

The bell above the door tinkled, pulling Aziraphale’s attention to the customers walking in. As expected, it was Mrs. Harriet Dowling and her darling son Warlock[1]. She was the wife of an important American ambassador, and as such, was frequently busy with other engagements, but she always found time to visit his shop. Years ago, when he first started out in the business, he’d worked as a gardener for her estate, a job he still looked back on with fondness.

“Mrs. Dowling,” he greeted warmly. “Good to see you.”

“Ah, hello, Aziraphale. Good morning to you,” she said, motioning for Warlock to come inside. He remained where he was, typing on his phone, and after a few moments, she dragged him the rest of the way inside.“Warlock, say hi.”

Warlock, who was now eleven years old, had discovered the unique joys of ignoring everyone around you in favor of your cellular device. Nose still buried in the screen in front of him, he grunted in place of a “hello.”

Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head, then retreated to the counter. The bouquet he’d prepared just needed to be wrapped, and it would be ready to go. He picked a complementary creme-colored paper for the stems and tied everything together with a bow, using a style of knot that had become his signature over the years.

“Here you are, Mrs. Dowling.”

She rotated the flowers in her hand, inspecting every angle before nodding in appreciation. “It’s lovely, Aziraphale,” she said, “as always.” Mrs. Dowling was not a woman who outwardly showed much affection, but she flashed him a quick smile. That was always his favorite part of the job, knowing that he’d made someone’s day a little bit brighter and happier. 

“I’m so glad you like it,” he said.

“What do you think, Warlock?” Mrs. Dowling turned and shoved the bouquet in Warlock’s face. Startled, he finally glanced up from his phone as he stumbled back. 

“’S’alright,” he mumbled, annoyed at the interruption.

“Good.” After he was engrossed in his phone once more, she muttered, “Let’s have a kid, Thad said. It’ll be a joy, he said.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, shuffling over to some ferns with a watering can in hand. Mrs. Dowling and Warlock often had these sorts of rows whenever they visited the shop, and his job was to pretend he didn’t hear a thing. “How is your husband, Mrs. Dowling?”

“Oh, you know,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Busy as ever.”

A buzzing noise from Mrs. Dowling’s purse interrupted their conversation, and she apologized profusely as she went to check her tablet. It turned out to be a reminder that she had a lunch appointment she needed to make. She corralled the still-distracted Warlock towards the door, desperately trying to get him to look up from his phone, and said her goodbyes to Aziraphale. 

Once they left, Aziraphale glanced at his watch. It was just about noon, which meant it was time for his daily trip to the pastry shop three blocks down. They had the most delectable croissants and these little slices of cheesecake the baker would sometimes hand out for free if he got there early enough. He flipped the sign on his window to “CLOSED,” then left the shop. On his way out, however, he found himself pausing on the front step between the door and the sidewalk, staring into the window of the empty building across the street. 

It was once a shop, but had since been long-abandoned, with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling inside and debris littering the floor. That was the way it had been since he’d opened his shop, but something was different now. The tattered “For Sale” sign that had been plastered to its door for years was gone, replaced by one that said “SOLD” in thick, dark letters. 

With a smile, Aziraphale wondered who might be moving in across the way. Would it be a friendly shop owner? A young couple looking for a place to live? A potential new friend? How lovely would that be. He stepped down onto the street and hummed to himself all the way to the baker’s, excited by the possibilities.

* * *

One of Aziraphale’s guesses about the new tenant had been correct: he was a shop owner. But he was, to put it lightly, something of a bastard, and Aziraphale’s hopes of being friends with his new across-the-street neighbor were dashed as soon as they met.

On the morning of the move in, a Bentley came to a screeching halt outside the store, and out stepped a man in a fitted leather jacket, dark sunglasses, and tight black jeans. From the trunk of his car, he retrieved a banner that he hung above the door: “Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things.” 

He was a _florist_. 

Mouth agape, Aziraphale watched through his window as the man—presumably this mysterious “Crowley”—turned the key in the door’s lock and went inside the old building. 

The next few days were a constant cycle of construction workers making their way in and out of Crowley’s new store. Noises from the saws and drills and jackhammers drifted across the street whenever Aziraphale left his windows open or went to grab lunch, leaving him with a rather massive headache, and after nearly a week of enduring the ear-splitting sound of power tools, Aziraphale decided it would be in his sanity’s best interest to take a stroll across the street and politely ask them to stop making such a racket during business hours. He strode with purpose to the front door of Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things, knocking a few times on the glass door before making his way inside. 

Clean. Sleek. Modern. That was Crowley’s shop, all streamlined and monochromatic; aside from the potted flowers and bright green houseplants sitting on the shelves, there was nary a color in sight. It felt all wrong for a flower shop, Aziraphale thought. So…cold and impersonal.

Standing in the middle of it all, holding a spray bottle filled with water up to a fern, was Crowley. He still had sunglasses on, even indoors. He’d styled his hair with what looked like massive amounts of mousse. He was even wearing that ridiculous leather jacket Aziraphale had seen him in every day for the past week.

Then he opened his mouth and _yelled_ at his plants.

“DO YOU CALL THAT GROWING?” He pulled the trigger on the spray bottle once, twice, three times. “WELL, I CALL IT PATHETIC. YOU LOOK PATHETIC, THE LOT OF YOU.” As he ranted, he waved the bottle about the room, pointing accusatorily at the plants in question.

Aziraphale froze by the entrance, unsure of how to proceed. In that same moment, Crowley turned, bottle hovering in midair and arm extended, to face Aziraphale with what could only be described as a sneer.

“Bugger off. We’re not open yet.”

Aziraphale stumbled back, pressing a hand to his heart while he composed himself. He was absolutely aghast. Good heavens, what poor customer service. And the manners! But Aziraphale was not a man easily deterred by mean strangers. He put on his brightest smile[2] as he addressed Crowley.

“Pardon me, but I’m not a customer.” He pointed out the window. “I’m actually sort of your neighbor. I run the shop across the way.”

Crowley lowered his arm and gestured as if to say, _And?_

Aziraphale lunged forward, extending his hand. “I’m Aziraphale. Nice to meet you.”

This introduction was met with a snort. “Aziraphale?” But Crowley still gave him a firm, quick handshake.

“It’s a family name.” Aziraphale tugged self-consciously at the sides of his tweet jacket (the one with the little tartan pattern on the inside and the delightful matching pocket square he’d gotten at the local thrift shop). “And what kind of name is Crowley then, hm?”

“Nickname I got from the blokes in prison,” he said without hesitation. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Crowley nodded. “Prison, yeah. Did a few years for tax evasion.”

He walked away—no, he sauntered; his natural gait was really more of a saunter—leaving behind a stunned Aziraphale. He sputtered as he tried to comprehend just who this new shop owner really was. “Wh—you—really?” 

When Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, he was grinning. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you. But you really did think I was in prison for a bit there, didn’t you?”

What on Earth could he even say to that? Aziraphale frowned, watching as Crowley spritzed a couple more plants, and his eyes bugged out when he saw the pale pink, bowl-shaped flower of _Protea Cynaroides_. Aziraphale had been trying to get a hold on several exotic species of flowers from the African continent for ages, and the national flower of South Africa had been top of his list for a long time.

“Where did you get all these…exotic plants?”

“I know a guy.”

Aziraphale waited, but Crowley offered no further response. Instead, he walked over to the radio sat on top of the front counter and turned it on. A melodic, male voice crackled from the speakers:

_Caaaaan any-BODEE find meeeee SOME-BODY toooo loooove?_

Aziraphale frowned. He’d never heard this song before. Granted, just about every song he listened to on his record player came from a classical composer; he much preferred the complexity of a good instrumental to the wailings of some singer’s voice. However, given what he’d seen of Crowley so far, he figured it might not be in his best interest to ask him to turn it off.

“So, erm, I actually came around to ask you for a small favor.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music. “You see, it’s been awfully loud these past few days, what with all the construction on your shop, and I was wondering if you might be able to keep it down just a little. My customers and I are finding it a bit distracting.”

Crowley turned abruptly towards him. The sneer was back.

“Why should I give a damn about your customers?” He pointed to himself. “I’m a florist.” He pointed to Aziraphale. “You’re a florist. Why the devil would I help you with your business? We’re competitors.”

A competition? That’s what this was now? Aziraphale stiffened and folded his hands in front of him. “Well…because it’s the polite thing to do.”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me, angelface,” Crowley said with a cocky smile, “it’s that I don’t really do ‘polite.’”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth and tried his best to remain cool and collected. Angelface? Just what was he playing at? He generally believed that everyone could be persuaded with a little charm and good manners. However, Crowley seemed to be a different breed altogether. He puttered about the shop, paying no mind to Aziraphale, who trailed behind him.

“Well, you know, I really think you should reconsider. We’re going to be living across from one another, so we might as well learn to get along. Even if we are, as you say, business rivals.” As Aziraphale continued to speak, Crowley went back to the radio and turned the volume up until the music hit a deafening pitch. “Oh for God’s sake, this is ridiculous!”

Crowley tapped a finger to his ear. “Sorry, what was that? Can’t hear you over the music.”

Before he could stop himself, Aziraphale stomped his foot and yelled, “How about you turn the fucking song down then, you absolute lunatic!” Upon realizing what foul language had come out, he clapped a hand over his mouth.

Crowley slowly rotated the volume knob until the music was all but a whisper. Then, to Aziraphale’s surprise, he grinned—a full, genuine one, too. “Alright, then,” he said. “All you had to do was ask. Had no idea you weren’t a Queen fan.”

“A what fan?”

“You don’t know who Queen is?” Crowley shook his head. “Never mind that. You know what, just for you, I’ll try to keep it down. Only a little. But your customers are fair game soon as I open up shop, got it?”

Aziraphale nodded, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He plastered a fake smile on his face, even though his entire body was alight with anger, a feeling he was altogether unused to. “Oh yes. I understand completely how it’s going to be.”

“Great. Glad we could come to an agreement.” He grinned again. “See you around…angelface.”

Not wanting to test the limits of Crowley’s fleeting patience and odd, sudden politeness, Aziraphale booked it out of the shop as quickly as he could. His heart pounded all the way across the street and didn’t slow until he closed the door of his own shop, back pressed against the glass as he took deep, calming breaths. Confrontation always messed with Aziraphale’s delicate constitution, so he tried to avoid it at all costs. But with this Crowley in town, he thought he might have to prepare for the worst.

* * *

He couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day. Normally, he was attentive to his customers, nodding along and smiling during all the right parts of the conversation. But today, no—today he was distracted. Something about his new neighbor was driving him mad. He spent most of his shift trying to figure out how someone could possibly be so rude and arrogant, causing him to mess up two different flower orders, place the chrysanthemums next to tulips (what on God’s green Earth was he even thinking?), and almost forget to lock up the store when he left for lunch. His entire world had been rattled by the new arrival, and he didn’t like it. In fact, it gave him a bit of a tummy ache, and Aziraphale did not enjoy that at all.

Crowley threatened his profits. He would surely be a menace to the neighborhood. And everything in Aziraphale’s carefully planned life could potentially be in ruins, including the business he’d worked so hard to build. So, after lunch, he turned to plotting. Perhaps he could report Crowley to the local florist and gardeners’ association, get him banned for life? That would surely tarnish his reputation, but it could also backfire on Aziraphale if people knew he was a snitch. Or he could spread rumors about Crowley selling dead plants? If he was a better liar and had a weaker moral compass, Aziraphale might have considered it.

Just around three o’clock, during the afternoon lull when few, if any, customers came inside the shop to look about, Aziraphale saw something out the window that deeply unsettled him. Across the street, Crowley stood on the sidewalk, holding a large sign. He climbed atop a small stepladder to string the sign along the side of his shop. Then, he stepped back to admire his handiwork for a second before ducking back inside. Once he moved, Aziraphale could read it, clear and plain as day:

“Grand Opening Sale - 70% off everything,” it said. Aziraphale gasped[3].

He waited until closing time to inspect the sign further, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before he puttered across the street. Sure enough, Crowley was having a grand opening sale. But what Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see from his own window was that there was more. Underneath the announcement was smaller text. “Prices will most definitely be lower than A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers,” he muttered as he read aloud. Then, on the very bottom of the sign in letters so tiny he had to lean in to see them, Crowley had written, “Take that, you frumpy old fool.” 

Aziraphale looked up. The lights in Crowley’s shop were on, and through the glass, he could see the man himself staring right back at him. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses; in the light, his eyes appeared golden, shining with mirth as he watched Aziraphale read the sign. As he caught Aziraphale’s gaze, he winked. Aziraphale bristled.

That settled it. The bastard was going down.

Aziraphale would make damn sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Mrs. Dowling had found the name Warlock from a parenting magazine article about unique baby names to make your child seem like an individual. What this article did not factor in was the likelihood of your child getting beaten up by other children as the result of a name like “Warlock,” as she discovered when he first went off to school.[return to text]
> 
> 2If you can imagine a thousand lightbulbs going off at once, or perhaps a flashlight shone into your eyes by an annoying sibling, then you have imagined Aziraphale’s brightest smile correctly.[return to text]
> 
> 3It is worth noting that Aziraphale has never, in the eleven years of owning his shop, held a sale on anything. Due to his dangerous propensity for giving people things for free, so long as they ask politely, he always considers holding a sale to be an invitation for people to take advantage of his sensitive nature.[return to text]


	2. Just Enough of a Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world’s most terrifying child appoints himself as Crowley’s new assistant. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is getting extremely bothered (and maybe a little hot, but he’d never admit that) about his new neighbor stealing half his business.

The spawn of Satan had just walked into his shop.

Okay, perhaps Crowley was being a smidge dramatic[4]; he was only a child, after all. But there was something about the boy’s commanding presence and stone-cold eyes that made him shudder a little. He’d strolled in that Tuesday morning after the shop officially opened and made himself at home, perusing the displays without so much as a glance in Crowley’s direction. After about ten minutes of him walking around, Crowley decided to say something. He set his spray bottle down on the front counter. 

“Can I help you?”

The boy regarded him briefly, then shook his head. “Probably not.”

Crowley pursed his lips, tilted his head. He appeared as if he was going to say something but found he’d been rendered speechless—not an experience he had very often. Meanwhile, the boy continued to walk about the shop, poking and prodding at various plants. Crowley’s eye twitched as he accidentally tore a petal off one of the tea roses.

“Shouldn’t your parents be with you?”

“Nah, Mum and Dad don’t care what I do, really. Back in Tadfield, they used to just let me play outside all day. Only rule was that I had to be back by sundown.” The boy pointed to a plant on display that had spiky leaves. “What’s this one?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, grateful for the cover of sunglasses. “It’s written on the sign right under it. Don’t they teach you to read in school, boy?”

“‘Course I know how to read. But like, where’s it from? Does it eat bugs and stuff?”

“It’s not a venus fly trap, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The boy’s lips twitched down. “Oh, alright then,” he said, looking up at Crowley. “I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Young. My parents just moved to London.”

To put it gently, Crowley had never been a…kid person. The last time he’d been allowed to hold a child, when one of his cousins gave birth a few years back, he’d nearly dropped the infant on her head. He was also firmly in the camp that believed all babies look a little bit like Winston Churchill, a comment that had gotten him kicked out of the hospital room after the child had been taken away from his grasp. Older children didn’t make much sense to him either, and as such, Crowley found himself with little to say to this Adam Young. But it felt a little too cruel to be outright mean to a child, even for him, so he settled for uncomfortable politeness.

“Right,” he said. “Erm, is London much different than Tadfield, then?”

Adam nodded. “Loads different,” he said. “There’s no woods here to play in, it’s all just cars and roads and buildings. So much more boring then back home.” He paused to appraise his surroundings. “But this shop is pretty neat. I like it in here.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Crowley said, with only a whiff of sarcasm in his tone. He picked up his spray bottle once more and resumed tending to his plants, refusing to let the arrival of this strange and slightly terrifying child ruin his schedule. However, his silence did not seem to deter Adam, who continued following Crowley around the shop like a persistent dog.

“I could help out,” Adam said after a few minutes. “Be your assistant.” The way Adam phrased this made it seem less like a proposition awaiting Crowley’s approval and more like a command. 

“I don’t really need any help,” Crowley said, slight sneer on his face. In all his years of commandeering different flower shops in cities across the UK, he’d never once hired any “help.” He preferred the do-it-yourself approach to business.

In a move so quick that Crowley barely had time to register it, Adam picked up a fern and tilted it sideways, causing some dirt to spill out the ceramic pot and onto the floor. With a malicious glint in his eyes, he said, “I could be your assistant. Or I could just dump this plant all over the floor—and all the others, too. Wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“Alright, fine, fine, you can be my assistant,” Crowley said as he snatched the plant away from Adam’s grasp. “Just don’t…touch anything else. And try not to ask too many annoying questions, would you?”

Adam’s face, for the first time since he’d walked into the shop, resembled something nice as he brightened and smiled at Crowley. “Wicked! Promise I won’t let you down.” Without warning, and making it apparent he hadn’t listened to anything Crowley said except the word “yes,” he then grabbed one of the nearby hydragneas. “Can I water this one?”

“For God’s sake, put that down,” Crowley said through gritted teeth as he lunged forward—for the second time that day—to pull the plant from Adam’s grasp and place it gently back in its spot.

As he watched Adam nod and mumble an apology, Crowley hoped this new assistantship wouldn’t end up biting him in the ass at some point. He had a strong feeling that it would, though.

* * *

“Ah, fu—” 

Aziraphale sucked on his now-bruised thumb to stop himself from swearing out loud. Perhaps trying to use a hammer when he’d never so much as touched a screwdriver with his manicured hands wasn’t his greatest idea, but it seemed, at the time, the only logical way to hang a banner above his door. After the pulsing in his finger died down, he put hammer to nail once more and finally managed to secure the sign. He stepped down from his ladder, looking up at his shop’s newest adornment.

“SALE - 60% Off Everything Inside.”

With a heavy sigh, he read and reread the words that had pained him so dearly to write. It had become apparent to that Crowley’s arrival to the neighborhood put a decent dent into his profits, as he’d discovered while maintaining his ledgers the previous week. The grand opening of Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things had, unfortunately, been a great success, with curious people all over the city coming to check out the new shop. Aziraphale had even spotted a few of his own regular customers popping into the store across the street, a fact he noted with immense disappointment.

Thus, he’d decided it was time he put his old habits aside, grit his teeth, and hold a sale on his merchandise. He’d just gotten some particularly beautiful blooms in stock and was hoping to attract some new customers with lower prices, as well as the elegant new displays he’d curated for his windows. And if he happened to steal away some of Crowley’s business, well, that would just be a nice perk.

With the sign hung, he went inside to open up shop and wait for customers to arrive. The first hour went by slowly, but as people began to take notice, they started coming inside to have a look. Aziraphale tended to each and every customer with a smile on his face and a personal touch, just as he’d always done, and by the time the morning was over, he’d made far more sales than expected. As he went to close for lunchtime, he paused to look out the window to the streets outside, inhaling deeply with a satisfied smile.

The door slammed open. Startled, he turned to look at whoever was barging into his store.

“What are you doing, Aziraphale?” The sharp, annoyed voice of the one and only Anathema Device[5]—professional descendant of a famous occultist and current owner of a witch-themed memorabilia store—rang out. “You’ve never held a sale before. I just about fell over when I saw the sign outside.”

“Oh, yes,” he said with a sigh. “Have you met _Crowley_ yet?”

He then launched into the whole sordid tale: his expectations of a fellow business owner to befriend being squished beneath the toes of Crowley’s combat boots, the loss of customers, the loss of prestige, the humiliation of that sign Crowley had put up. Anathema listened, studied him for a moment, and then flicked her gaze outside.

“You’re talking about the new guy across the street, right? The one setting up a flower stand right now?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, and he ran[6] toward the window, nearly colliding with the glass in his haste to see what was happening. On the street corner, Crowley had built a small kiosk adorned with flowers, arranged in (admittedly beautiful) displays. A small crowd gathered around the stand, admiring the bouquets, and Aziraphale watched as he assembled one on the spot and handed it off to a customer.

“That _bastard_,” Aziraphale swore. “He’s doing this just to get to me, I know he is!”

“I don’t know, Aziraphale,” Anathema said. “I think it’s just good business.”

Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief, pulling himself away from the maddening scene unfolding before his eyes, and retreated back inside the store proper. He plucked a few lilies from the pile he had sitting out on the front counter and threw them down into the bouquet he had been in the middle of putting together before Anathema’s interruption. She observed him as he worked with a wary expression.

“So, you’re coming to my wedding, right?” she finally asked, slipping a card across the counter. It had a photograph of her and her fiancé, Newton Pulsifer[7], on the front with “Save the Date” written in swirly, purple letters. “I need you to RSVP like, yesterday.”

“Yes, yes, of course I am.” Aziraphale frowned. “I must have forgotten about the one I got in the mail. I’m so terribly sorry, I’ve…I’ve been awfully distracted lately.”

Anathema placed her hands, which were balled into fists, on her hips and cocked her head. An amused smile danced across her face. “Does it maybe have something to do with your very good-looking and dastardly charming new neighbor?” 

Aziraphale, who had been in the middle of sipping the cocoa he’d left on the counter, spit his drink into the mug. He coughed a few times. “Charming? He’s nothing of the sort!”

“I think you doth protest too much, my dearest Aziraphale,” Anathema said with a slight giggle.

He stiffened, tugging the lapels of his favorite tan blazer inwards as he took in a sharp breath.“Well, no one asked you for your opinion, anyway,” he said. The skin of his face felt as though it had caught fire, and he tried to think calming thoughts to ease the flush on his cheeks, hoping Anathema wouldn’t notice.

While Anathema changed the course of conversation to discuss her ongoing wedding dilemmas (which included such thrilling topics as choosing between creme and ivory-colored napkins and whether or not to invite Newt’s odd second cousin who sometimes picked his nose during dinner) Aziraphale drifted towards the window once more, squinting to get a better view of the street corner. Now that it was mid-afternoon, Crowley was at last taking down his kiosk, balancing multiple flowerpots in his arms, two of which he handed to a small child who appeared to be helping him out. Aziraphale scoffed. Of course Crowley would be the kind of man to see nothing wrong with using child labor.

It was in that moment, as he watched Crowley go back into his shop, that Aziraphale had a thought. A nasty, wicked, very bad thought; a thought more suited to a hooligan than someone like himself, and one that violated just about every part of his carefully crafted moral compass. But it was also just the sort of thing to get rid of Crowley once and for all—or at the very least, set him back a few sales.

Mind made up, Aziraphale steeled himself. He was going to do something he swore long ago he’d never do:

He was going to intentionally kill a plant.

* * *

When he’d first purchased his new shop, Crowley had been hesitant to rent the space above it for his new flat. Usually he kept a good distance between his home life and his work life. But the deal on the flat was too financially sound to pass up, so he’d signed a lease. Even up through his move, he’d been uncertain about this choice—but the night Crowley that heard a thump from downstairs, followed by the muffled sound of a door slamming shut, it appeared that his decision had probably been a good one.

Ripping off his sleep mask, Crowley grumbled to himself as he stripped away the sheets on his bed with a flourish and got up to find out what the bloody hell was happening in his shop. In the corner of his room, he kept both a baseball bat and a pistol, for use in scenarios just like this one. Once he heard another crash, however, he assumed he probably wouldn’t be needing the gun, based on how clumsy this burglar appeared to be. Creeping down the stairs, bat in hand, Crowley hoped that he wouldn’t need to get the police involved; due to a number of personal reasons, he wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of law enforcement.

Thankfully, though, when he made it to the bottom of the steps and pushed open the door, he found it was only…Aziraphale? 

Yes, it was definitely Aziraphale. Although he’d dressed himself in all black and even covered most of his face, the delicate, spotless hands holding an open bottle of bleach gave him away instantly. When he spotted Crowley, he jumped several inches into the air, then capped the bottle as quickly as he could. 

“Relax, Aziraphale. I know it’s you.”

With a sigh, Aziraphale peeled the mask off his face, casting his eyes down towards the ground.

“Hello, Crowley.”

“Were you trying to kill some of my plants?” Crowley squinted to get a better look at his intruder. “You were, weren’t you?”

Aziraphale put on a nervous smile, shifting so that the bleach in his hands was now behind his back; however, he neglected to notice that Crowley could still see it perfectly well. 

“No, I—of course not, no! What on Earth would give you that idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that bottle of bleach in your hand there,” Crowley said with an exaggerated shrug. “That and the fact that it’s two in the bloody morning and you’re standing in my shop, which, as I’m sure you noticed when you broke in, has been closed for about eight hours now.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, round cheeks going pink. He appeared to be formulating an excuse—Crowley could practically see his brain at work. But he also knew a bad liar when he saw one, and Aziraphale was about the worst he’d ever met. Eventually, his face drooped, and he set the bleach down on the shelf next to him.

“Yes, I must admit I’ve been quite jealous of your success. I don’t know what possessed me to do something so stupid and…and criminal, at that, but I’m terribly sorry.”

Crowley blinked a few times. He knew he should be angry. Furious, even. After all, Aziraphale had just broken into his shop with the intention of killing his plants and sabotaging his business. And yet, there was something about the idea of _angelface_ of all people having such a thought—let alone the balls to execute said plan—that he found absolutely hysterical.

So he started laughing, and once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop.

Aziraphale eyed him, his expression somewhere between “nervous” and “barely masked concern for Crowley’s sanity.” “You’re not…angry? Or going to call the police?”

“No, no this is bloody hilarious.” Crowley wiped a stray tear from his eyes, shoulders shaking from laughter. “Here I was, thinking you were Mr. Polite, always doing the right thing. And next thing I know, you’ve broken into my shop—badly, I might add—and are trying to kill all my damn plants.”

As he looked back at Aziraphale, something bubbled up inside Crowley that he’d never felt before. It might have been trapped gas, he supposed, but it also felt a lot like admiration for the man in front of him. Give it another week or two, and this little plan of Aziraphale’s might have come straight out of Crowley’s playbook. But he didn’t know how to express such a feeling, so he settled for doing something he knew he was good at: making Aziraphale squirm. He leaned in towards Aziraphale, lips quirking slowly upward in a smile, so close he could smell the cologne on his skin. 

“But now, angelface? I’m starting to think you might be just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.” He lingered for a few seconds before he stepping away, pleased to note that the flush had spread to Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale huffed, loudly. He appeared as if he were trying to pull himself together. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I’ll leave that one up to you.” Crowley sauntered towards the front counter and hopped up to take a seat, crossing one leg over the other. “So, what was the end game here? You kill my plants…and then what, exactly?”

“Well…to be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure what I thought going into this,” Aziraphale admitted, refusing to look at him. “Maybe I figured I’d set you back a few sales. It’s been hard with you here. All these people, for the past eleven years, used to come only to me for their business.”

“Well, that’s just competition, innit?” Crowley said. “We make each other better business owners and florists just by existing near one another.”

“I don’t think that’s been the case for me,” Aziraphale said. He finally looked at Crowley, his eyes sad and somewhat resentful. 

Crowley blew a raspberry, startling Aziraphale. “Oh, bullshit,” he said. “I saw you had a sale recently. Did that not help you make a bigger profit? Did you not have more sales because of it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“See, that’s my point, angelface.” Crowley had gotten up from the counter by now and was gesturing wildly as he spoke. “We push each other to be better. We’re friendly competitors, that’s all.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Don’t you think we could be?”

The earnestness of the question clearly threw Aziraphale, who looked as if a thousand gears were turning in his head at once. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was searching for a response, but didn’t say anything. At last, he took a deep breath, shoulders falling with his exhale. 

“Well, I guess that’s not…entirely out of the question.”

Crowley grinned, almost involuntarily, and felt that emotion bubble up within him again. This time, he didn’t bother to push it back down.

“Good. Glad to hear it. Now, pardon my French, but would you mind getting the hell out of my shop? I’ve got to sleep to keep this—” he pointed at his face and drew a circle with his finger—“Looking sharp.”

With a roll of his eyes, but the hint of a smile, Aziraphale said, “Yes, of course.” Then he grew serious once more. “I really am sorry, you know. I won’t do anything of the sort ever again.”

“I believe you,” Crowley said. The strangest part of all was that he actually did.

As Aziraphale gave him a parting wave and walked out into the night, Crowley tried his best to ignore a rapidly increasing heart rate. Through the window, he watched his new almost-friend make his way across the street, then gazed up at the inky night sky, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4To offer an analogy, if being dramatic was a sport, Crowley would have skipped the Olympic trials and gone straight to the podium for his gold medal.[return to text]
> 
> 5When Anathema had first arrived to the neighborhood, she and Aziraphale became fast friends, bonding over having family names that always took strangers off guard and held up the Starbucks line for at least ten minutes while they spelled it out loud for the cashier.[return to text]
> 
> 6In certain counties of the UK, Aziraphale’s “run” could only legally be considered walking.[return to text]
> 
> 7Anathema’s aforementioned famous occultist great-grandmother had once predicted that she would “meet and make love to a weird, skinny man with an inferiority complex and technological deficiencies.” This man turned out to be Newt Pulsifer, who became her fiancé within just a year of dating.[return to text]


	3. Us versus (the) Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gang of feral children forces Crowley to seek help from his rival. But you know what they say: keep your friends close and your enemies jammed together with you in a storage room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobic slur towards the end of chapter

So it turned out that his new assistant Adam had _friends_—and to Crowley, they were equally as terrifying. There were three of them in total, two boys and one girl, and they all had loud, squeaky voices that made him want to start punching things. One particular Saturday morning (it was a cold, blustery sort of day, which meant it had started as Crowley’s favorite type of day), they burst into the shop with all the finesse of a herd of stampeding elephants and swallowed Adam up in a group hug. Then they ran rampant amidst the plant displays, picking up pots and setting them down with no regard for proper organization and aesthetic principles.

“Adam, this is _wicked_,” one of the boys, who had the sort of face that suggested his fingers were constantly sticky, said. “London is so much cooler than Tadfield.”

From slightly behind the others, the quieter boy adjusted his spectacles and piped up, “I don’t know, Brian. Tadfield just feels so much safer than London. What if we get robbed or something? Our parents wouldn’t like that.”

“Don’t be such a worrywart, Wensleydale,” the lone girl of the group said. Her voice was brash and authoritative. “Besides, that’s assuming you even have anything worth taking.”

Adam watched the entire scene unfold with bright eyes and a small smile on his face; it was the happiest Crowley had seen him since he’d first set foot in the shop. “I missed you guys.”

From the little Crowley could follow of their lightning-fast conversational dynamic, he gathered that the kids referred to their group as “the Them"[8] and that they were some sort of child…gang? Their main hobbies seemed to include playing in the woods, following rules that Adam made up (which only provided further evidence for Crowley’s belief that Adam was the most frightening child on Earth, and perhaps the spawn of Satan), and terrorizing the adults in Tadfield. After around fifteen minutes of these feral children roaming around his shop, Crowley decided to restore some order to his business; some of the other customers were starting to stare, and a couple had even left already as a result of the chaos.

“Could you all just _shut up_ for a moment?” he barked. When the four children looked at him with sad eyes, he coughed and lowered his voice. “Is there something I can help you with, or are you just going to continue bothering my customers as you please?” 

The kids looked at one another and shrugged. Crowley frowned as he noticed there were only three of them now. The last one, Wensleydale, was currently—

“Excuse me, mister, can I have this one?” Wensleydale held up a small fig tree and gazed at in admiration. “She’s a beauty.”

“How do you know it’s a girl plant?” Pepper reached out and yanked the pot out of Wensleydale’s hands. “That’s just sexist.”

Almost as soon as Pepper gained possession of said plant, Brian stole it from her and lifted it up into the air. “Hey, Wensleydale! Catch!” 

Crowley watched in what felt like slow motion as Brian raised his arm, cocked it, and launched the potted plant towards the other boy. It sailed through the air, spinning a few times before landing on the ground with a crash as Wensleydale dodged out of the way to avoid being hit. Soil spilled out into a sad heap onto the newly cleaned floors, much to Crowley’s anguish.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Woah, neat. I wanna try next!” Adam, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with all the calmness of a monk, suddenly decided he wanted in on the action, as he picked up a plant and hurled it towards Brian.

Crowley lunged forward. “No, goddammit, stop that!”

It was too late; Brian surprisingly had managed to catch the plant in his grasp, but only for a moment before it slipped from his hands and suffered the same fate as the fig tree before it. The kids cheered and clapped in delight, then scampered around the shop looking for more things to throw. By now, nearly all his other customers had been chased away by the renegade children, who paid no mind to Crowley’s outbursts. In fact, Adam seemed to delight in the chaos around him, grinning wildly as he watched his friends run amok. 

Crowley decided he’d had enough—this was his shop, dammit. Just as Pepper had a plant lifted in the air to presumably smash on the ground, Crowley snatched it from her hands.

“This is a place of business, not a fucking playground. Stop touching my merchandise, or…or I’m calling your parents.”

The kids fell silent. Adam studied him for a moment. Then, a slow, terrible, wicked grin crossed his face as he looked at Crowley.

“Hey guys, I think I thought of a new game we can play,” he said, “where we take over the shop for the day, and I’ll be the boss instead. How does that sound?”

“What in the bloody—”

The kids’ cheering drowned out Crowley’s protests.

“What’s your first order as boss?” Wensleydale asked Adam.

Adam looked at Crowley again. “I think we should play a game of tag,” he said, then pointed at Crowley. “And he’ll be ‘it.’”

As the four children stared down Crowley, appearing like a pack of lions ready to begin a hunt, Crowley had the distinct feeling that his life had spun wildly out of his control. So, he did the only reasonable thing a fully grown adult such as himself could be expected to do in a scenario such as this:

He bolted out the door of his shop and hightailed it across the street into the relative safety of A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers.

* * *

Aziraphale, by all accounts, had been enjoying a rather pleasant Saturday. Business was slow that morning, so he’d spent a half hour or so perusing a copy of _Leaves of Grass_ while sipping his morning tea. Then he’d taken it upon himself to take care of some flowers he knew needed a good watering. He was leisurely inspecting his inventory when Crowley arrived to interrupt his fragile peace somewhere around ten, flinging the door open with a bang as he barreled over Aziraphale in his haste to get inside.

“Crowley? What in God’s name—”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders and shook him. “I need your help.” He sounded out of breath. “Is there someplace I can hide?”

“Yes, but what—”

Crowley whipped his head around to look out the window, then turned back and shook his shoulders again. “There’s no time to explain!”

Aziraphale didn’t know what had gotten into Crowley, but he did know he looked rather distressed. And if there was one thing Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to ignore, it was a person clearly in need of help.

“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hands off his shoulders and trotted to the back of his shop, where he had his storage room. He reached into his sweater vest pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the wooden door before ushering Crowley inside and shutting the door behind them. “We can hide in here.”

Crowley nodded, glancing distractedly around the room. Piled from floor to ceiling were stacks of books old and new, thick and thin, and Aziraphale could see Crowley scanning some of the titles as he looked at them[9]. Aziraphale’s actual supplies were shoved into the far corner, as his collection took up the majority of the shelves and the room itself.

Outside, Aziraphale heard the shop door open and close.

“They’re here,” Crowley hissed, raising a finger to his lips. _Even though he was the one talking to begin with_, Aziraphale thought with mild annoyance.

“Hello? Crowley, are you here? We were only joking, you know. We’ll give you your shop back.” There was a pause. “And you don’t have to be ‘it’ anymore.”

It sounded like a younger voice. Curious, Aziraphale went to the storage room door, opened it just a hair (to the sound of Crowley’s gasp), and peeked through the crack. Milling about his shop were four school-aged children. One of them, a boy with curly hair, appeared to be the leader of the group, judging by the reverential expressions of the other three.

“Crowley’s here, I bet. Let’s just hang out here until he shows up.” The boy paused to glance around the room. “The guy who owns this shop? Crowley never shuts up about him.”

Aziraphale flushed. Crowley talked about him? 

He shook his head. No, never mind that; knowing Crowley, it probably wasn’t anything good. With a roll of his eyes, he closed the door once again and turned to face Crowley as he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Crowley, they’re _children_. And here I thought you were being mugged, or… or robbed at gunpoint!”

Crowley looked up at the ceiling and muttered, “I might as well have been.” Although Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes behind those infernal sunglasses he always wore, he was pretty sure that Crowley was wearing the most pathetic expression he’d ever seen on the normally arrogant man. “They’ve taken over my shop. I’ve lost all control.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “Do you know them?”

“Well,” Crowley said. “One of them is my assistant.”

Aziraphale recalled the boy he’d seen helping Crowley take down his flower stand. “Oh, yes. The taller boy, correct? I think I’ve seen him around your shop.”

“So you’re watching my shop, eh? Spying on me?” The smirk was back on Crowley’s face before Aziraphale even had a chance to say, _Bastard_.

“Yes, that’s precisely what I was doing. You’ve figured it out,” Aziraphale said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. “How did you end up with a child for an assistant anyway?”

“I don’t know! He just kind of… talked his way into it.” 

Just as Crowley appeared as though he were about to launch into an explanation, a voice rang out in the main part of the shop.

“Wait, I think I heard something from over by the counter.”

Crowley practically launched himself off the wall and clamped a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth to silence him, shoving him against the opposite side of the storage room in the process. His shoulder collided with one of the thicker books, which flopped onto the ground with a loud smack. Silence followed. Most embarrassingly, Crowley stood just inches away, his head turned sideways so that Aziraphale could follow the curve of his jaw. His chest heaved up and down with nervous breaths, mirroring Aziraphale’s own. Their position felt entirely too intimate, and Aziraphale did not know what to make of this predicament; so, he decided he needed to get out of it.

After a couple minutes of shuffling outside, followed by the kids calling out Crowley’s name, Aziraphale peeled the offending hand off his mouth before making his way to the door. Ignoring Crowley’s silent protestations, Aziraphale squeezed back through the door and into the shop. The four children immediately fell silent and stared up at him as he gave them one of his signature bright smiles.

“Why, hello there,” he greeted. “I’m Aziraphale, the shop owner. Can I help you? Are you picking out some flowers for your parents, perhaps?”

“We’re looking for Crowley,” the taller boy, the ringleader, said. “He’s the guy who—”

“Oh, yes, I’m familiar.” _All too familiar_, Aziraphale thought. “But I don’t believe I’ve seen him around the neighborhood at all today. He certainly wouldn’t be here.” He laughed, wiping a hand behind his neck where sweat was starting to accumulate. “No, no, definitely not.”

“I told you we went too far, Adam,” the boy in the glasses said. He had a squeaky, matter-of-fact sort of voice that even irritated Aziraphale.

“I hate to say this, but…I think you might be right, Wensleydale,” the taller boy—or Crowley’s assistant, rather—said. “Let’s just go back and wait for him.”

The kids all looked at one another and nodded (although based on what he’d observed, Aziraphale doubted any of them would’ve dared to suggest otherwise.) Without so much as a goodbye, the gang of children walked out, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley behind. Once they were safely out of the shop, Aziraphale went back to the storage room, knocking lightly on the door. 

“You can come out now, Crowley,” he said. “They’re gone.”

After a moment’s pause, Crowley slunk out of the storage room. “I don’t even want to know what my shop is going to look like once I go back.”

“Best not to think about it,” Aziraphale said with a sympathetic smile.

“Well.” Crowley tugged on the lapels of his leather jacket, fixing Aziraphale with a steady gaze. His sunglasses, to Aziraphale’s surprise, were now tucked into the neckline of his shirt, and his expression was surprisingly open, without a hint of his usual arrogance or bravado. “Thanks for… you know. Saving my arse back there.”

Aziraphale grinned. Rocky relationship aside, it was rather nice to feel appreciated. “It was no problem at all,” he said. 

Crowley shifted from one foot to the other as he fiddled with the sunglasses. “So, I owe you one now, right?” 

“Oh, no, no. Don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale said.

“At least let me buy you a drink, angelface,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows. “It’s the least I can do.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times, taken aback by Crowley’s suggestion. Not only would this require him spending money on his self-professed rival, but it would also mean extended time spent in one another’s company. But Aziraphale had to admit that he was becoming less and less repulsed by the idea of being around Crowley, and as he’d pointed out, it was only fair that his good deed be repaid in kind.

So he sighed, and against all better judgement, said, “Fine. But only one drink, no more.”

* * *

The bar Crowley selected for their evening rendezvous was hardly the sort of place Aziraphale would normally frequent. It was dark, noisy, and smelled overwhelmingly like cigarette smoke, not to mention the patrons who all looked as though they possibly belonged to some kind of biker gang. As soon as he walked inside, he could feel eyes on him picking him as an outsider. Thankfully, Crowley standing next to him seemed to act as a shield of sorts, protecting him from the insults surely brimming in strangers’ heads. Crowley waltzed up to the bartender, a grizzled man with several tattoos on his left arm, and asked for two gin and tonics without any measure of hesitation. He slid the drinks across the bar, and Crowley took them, motioning for Aziraphale to follow him to the back room of the bar, which was much quieter. He chose a small wooden table for them to sit at.

Once Aziraphale was nicely settled in his seat, he took a cautious sip of his drink. It was strong, that was for sure—but even though he might have preferred a nice wine, he could certainly hold his liquor. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Erm, do you come here often?”

Crowley, who had been in the middle of taking a rather long drink, set down his glass after a few seconds. “From time to time,” he said, glancing around the room. To their left, two men with ripped leather jackets and multiple piercings played some kind of card game, leaning in towards one another. 

“Well, it’s certainly, um…”

“You hate it.” Crowley was looking at him now.

“Well now, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not exactly to my usual tastes, but perhaps it’s good for me to broaden my horizons every now and again.”

Crowley nodded, and then they fell into a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. Unlike most people, Aziraphale didn’t mind making small talk with relative strangers, and in fact, was rather good at it. But to him, Crowley was inscrutable. He still had no idea what to make of this man who seemed to vacillate wildly between ‘bloody bastard’ and ‘decent human being.’

“You didn’t have to buy me anything, you know,” he said finally. “Or take me out.”

This statement was met with a scoff. “‘Course I did. It’s only fair, since you saved me and all today.”

Aziraphale decided it would be best to refrain from reminding Crowley he’d been so frightened by a gaggle of children and took another sip of his drink. “I’m just surprised you’d be willing to spend time with me outside any necessary interactions.” He gestured between the two of them. “I mean, given that we’re so different, I wouldn’t think this would be an enjoyable occasion.”

Crowley snorted, tilting his glass slightly to the side so it appeared to be pointing at Aziraphale. “Geez, Aziraphale, make it more obvious you don’t want to be here, why don’t you?” he said. “You know, we’re probably more alike than you think we are.” 

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to scoff. He could already feel the warmth of alcohol in his belly, loosening both his tongue and emotions. “My dear boy,” he said. “I can assure you, we have absolutely nothing in common.”

“Dear boy? You’re five years older than me, tops,” Crowley said. “No need to be so patronizing.”

“Right, yes.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat up. He knew Crowley was right—he did have a tendency to speak as if he were looking down on others. Not intentionally, of course, but on occasion it did happen. “Sometimes I tend to be a bit… condescending if I’m not careful about it. I apologize.”

“S’alright.”

Another silence followed.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask, angelface—why do you have the London Library’s entire collection in your storage room?” Crowley said, a slight smile edging at the corners of his lips.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat, coughed a bit. “I read a lot. Need a place to keep the books I buy.”

“Ever heard of the library?” 

At this, Aziraphale cocked his drink back and finished the last few gulps of alcohol. As it went down, he relished in the burn it provided, which tipped him off that he was getting closer to drunk than he realized.

“Well yes, of course, but you see, I had a bit of a misunderstanding with the London Library a number of years ago involving a very rare book I checked out and might have, perhaps, accidentally misplaced.” Aziraphale looked down at the bottom of his now-empty glass, wishing the alcohol had allowed him to feel slightly less ashamed—maybe he wasn’t quite drunk enough yet. “So, I’m sort of…banned for life.”

Crowley burst out laughing, drawing the attention of the men next to them, who were still playing their card game. They eyed Crowley with a mixture of what seemed like fear and curiosity, and Aziraphale suspected his expression mirrored the same.

“You just keep getting more and more fascinating, don’t you?” Crowley finally said after coming down from his fit of laughter. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re quite different than what I thought.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said. His body was warm all over, and he smiled. “There’s always more to people than you think at first, isn’t there?”

“‘Spose you’re right.” Crowley took another glance around the room. As the night wore on, the bar had started to become more crowded, the air filling with loud chatter and aggressive smoke, to the point where Aziraphale had even started to cough a bit. “I’m going to be honest with you, angelface. This bar is just too damn crowded now.”

Aziraphale smiled. “My dear boy, is this the first time we’ve actually agreed on something?”

“Might be,” Crowley said, giving him a rare, genuine smile. “I’m not going to make a habit of it, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Shall we leave, then?”

Crowley nodded, and the two of them began to wind their way through the crowds by the bar, with Crowley in the lead pushing people aside with his shoulder and Aziraphale trailing behind him, politely muttering, “Excuse me” every time they passed someone. Close to the door, there was no gap to be found, so Aziraphale found himself reaching out and grabbing onto Crowley’s shoulder. With surprise, Crowley turned back to look at the hand, and Aziraphale thought he might have imagined it, but his expression looked softer than normal.

“I’ve got you, angelface,” Crowley mouthed.

With a tug, he pulled Aziraphale through the gap to the other side, where the door mercifully awaited them. Aziraphale sighed in relief. However, what he failed to notice was that the sudden motion had caused one of the bar’s patrons to spill his drink, which went splashing onto the floor by Crowley’s feet.

“Watch where you’re going, faggot.”

The slur came from a broad-shouldered, mean-looking man with a droopy face and eyes like daggers that bore into Aziraphale’s face. 

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale gaped up at him, hands gesticulating uselessly as he struggled to find an apology. “I’m so—I’m very—I really am so sorry.”

“Oh, piss off,” the man said as he quickly rounded on Aziraphale, who remained frozen. At his side, Crowley snarled, and as the man advanced, Crowley suddenly lunged forward and had him by the collar, his feet dangling over the bar’s wooden floors. 

“What the fuck did you just say to him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8In their own view, the Them were brave warriors and fearless explorers, creating their own little worlds to play in that endlessly enchanted their days. To the rest of Tadfield, they were “a menace” and “the little bastards that stole from my shop,” “my shop” being any store within a fifty mile radius of the Them.[return to text]
> 
> 9As a general rule, Crowley did not “read for fun,” and his knowledge of any of the books found in Aziraphale’s collection was most likely limited to plagiarized essays and book reports for his English classes in secondary school and college.[return to text]


	4. Engagement Ring, Wedding Ring, Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the bride, along with a pair of sexually frustrated idiots.

It had been a number of years since Crowley had found himself in his current predicament—fists ready, heart pumping, staring into the eyes of someone who wanted nothing more than to bash his face in. The thing was, though, that Crowley wasn’t normally the aggressor. He preferred to piss someone off just enough to incite some threat of violence. But as soon as he’d heard those words come out of that man’s mouth…

_"Watch where you’re going, faggot."_

Something red hot and dangerous had burst in him, and he’d lunged forward without thinking, fully prepared to beat this man he didn’t even know until he cried out for mercy.

“What the fuck did you just say to him?” he repeated through gritted teeth, enunciating just enough so that a little spit landed on the man’s cheek.

“I said, watch where you’re going, fa—”

Crowley didn’t let him finish. He thrust upwards and forwards, hard. The man stumbled backwards, crashing into a crowd of onlookers. Glasses on top of a nearby table rolled off and smashed to the ground, and people started to scatter. Without thinking, Crowley launched himself at the man, knuckles colliding with his jaw.

“Fuck!” he sputtered, some blood coming out of his mouth.

Crowley shoved him again with as much force as he could muster. The two of them toppled over. Another table went down, glasses shattering to pieces, and they landed on the floor in a scuffling heap. Crowley coughed, trying to catch his breath, then rolled over and onto his feet. The man was already up, ready to fire back. Before Crowley could duck, a fist made direct content with his face.

“Motherfucker!” Crowley fumbled backwards with his hand over his nose, which was now bleeding profusely. A strong pair of arms caught him.

“Break it up, _break it the fuck up_.” 

It was a bouncer. Bloody hell.

A second bouncer held back the man, who was still raring to go, as he struggled against the bouncer’s grip. The one who had Crowley shook his head.

“You two are going first,” he said, then jabbed his thumb at the perpetrator. “I’ll deal with him separately.” Rather indelicately, he grabbed Crowley and Aziraphale by the collar, one in each hand, and kicked open the door to the bar before tossing them out into the night. Crowley tripped a bit before regaining some measure of balance, blood still dripping from his nose to stain the concrete below. Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Crowley, are you alright?”

Crowley nodded weakly as he wiped a trail of blood from his face. “Yeah, I’m fine. Fucking bastard.” From his jacket pocket, he produced his sunglasses, which were now snapped right down the middle. They dangled pitifully from his hand, the broken half swinging back and forth, before dropping to the ground. His stomach clenched. “My—my sunglasses,” were the last words that came out of his mouth before he lurched forward and threw up onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, dear.”

A pair of hands reached under his armpits to hoist him up. Aziraphale. Crowley found himself eye-to-eye with him. He reached out and tapped his nose with his index finger, ever-so-lightly.

“Boop,” he said.

Aziraphale’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Did you just tap my nose?”

Crowley didn’t answer.

“Alright, well… let’s get you somewhere I can help you.”

With a sigh, Aziraphale moved Crowley’s arm so it was around his shoulder, holding him up as they started the long walk back towards their homes. Save for some moaning in pain, Crowley stayed quiet for most of the journey, not able to find the energy to keep up his usual repartee with Aziraphale, who practically pushed him up the stairs and into his flat above the flower shop.

_Daisies_—Aziraphale’s flat smelled like daisies—that was the first thing Crowley could make out. In the back of his currently-addled brain, he remembered he’d just prepared a bouquet for someone centered around white and yellow daisies. Innocence, that’s what they symbolized. Purity, too.

“Smells like daisies,” he said, unaware that he was speaking out loud.

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I have a rather soft spot for white daisies. I keep them around the place to brighten it up.”

As Aziraphale set him down on the couch, Crowley spotted a cluster of daisies sitting on the mantle above his fireplace. He observed Aziraphale, who was currently draping a blanket over him, as he sank back into soft, velvety cushions.

“’S’nice,” Crowley said. “They suit you.”

Aziraphale smiled softly for a moment, then puttered off to the kitchen. Crowley heard the freezer and another drawer open, then shut, before he returned with an ice pack and a first aid kit. Using a long roll of gauze, he mopped up the blood on Crowley’s face, then started bandaging his nose. As he finished placing the bandage, his fingers lingered on the skin there, and Crowley felt a distinct tingling sensation at the touch.

“Why do you always wear sunglasses?” Aziraphale blurted out, seeming to forget his usual self-consciousness for the moment. It almost made Crowley want to smile. “Forgive me if this is going too far, given our previous interactions, but your eyes are really a lovely shade of hazel.”

“W-what, erm,” Crowley spluttered, not sure what to make of a genuine compliment from Aziraphale—or of the sudden hot flush that had erupted all over his skin. He coughed. “Well, if you have to know, I get migraines sometimes. Light sensitivity.”

Aziraphale hummed in response, nodding. Then he grabbed the ice pack from his supplies and pressed it lightly to Crowley’s eye. The cooling sensation relaxed Crowley’s muscles, and he let out a sigh. A few moments passed in easy quiet.

“That was awfully nice of you to defend me like that,” Aziraphale finally said.

Crowley scoffed. “Nice? I’m not nice.” Even in his current state, he still had it in him to be indignant about being referred to as ‘nice.’ People like him weren’t ‘nice.’ No, being nice was for people who liked to get their asses handed to them over and over again in life and that could never be him. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

Aziraphale smiled at him then, and Crowley thought, half-mad, that his smile was something like a spring day. Like the sun opening to greet the world after a long winter, a field of wildflowers turning towards the light. A pulsing glow, not unlike a halo, encapsulated Aziraphale’s face in perfect complement to that damned smile. Dazed, Crowley blinked a few times.

“You’re glowing, angelface,” he slurred.

The smile was gone. “I’m… pardon?”

“There’s a light around you. Just now,” he said, reaching up to poke his cheek. “You can’t see it?”

Gently, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s eyelids and inspected his pupils.

“I suspect you might have a concussion, Crowley.”

Damn that bastard at the bar. Everything in his skull pulsed all of a sudden, making him feel a bit dizzy and lightheaded. Up above, the soft ceiling lights grew stars. Aziraphale got up and started rummaging around his flat for a coat and keys. “I’m going to take you to the hospital now,” he said, his voice more authoritative than Crowley had ever heard it before.

“Oh, bugger,” Crowley said.

Then he closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *

You couldn’t trust tailors anymore, Aziraphale thought. The suit that the salesman at menswear shop a block over had informed him was a “marvelous choice for his frame” no longer fit quite so well. He ran his hands over the front of the jacket, frowning at his reflection. Certainly it wasn’t the daily pastries at lunch to blame for his figure’s swelling in recent months. 

Aziraphale examined his torso again, then sighed. No, of course it was those damn desserts that made him look this way. But really, he’d never been one to be particularly confident in his appearance. Whether it was his weight or his hair (gone almost completely white by the time he was forty) or the faint lines on his forehead, there was always something to pick apart in the mirror. He especially hated getting dressed up for special occasions such as this one, as he always felt something as nice as a modern suit didn’t belong on him.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he recalled the way Crowley had looked at him that night lying on his couch, nearly delirious from the concussion he’d incurred. It was almost something like… reverence? Admiration? He’d chalked it up to hallucinations on his part, perhaps as a result of the head injury, but still, Aziraphale couldn’t get the mental image out of his head, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why.

_“You’re glowing, angelface.”_

Oh, blast. 

When they arrived at the hospital, Crowley had rolled his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, mumbling incoherently until a nurse came to whisk him away. The doctor had immediately confirmed Aziraphale’s suspicions about the concussion and told him to take it easy for the next few weeks. The first three or so days after the diagnosis, Crowley closed his shop, and the blinds covering all the windows made it appear just as empty and abandoned as it had been before he moved in. Aziraphale had briefly contemplated going over to check on him but thought better of it, assuming that the last thing Crowley probably wanted was to see him.

He pulled a pocket watch (gold, chosen specially for the occasion) out of his pocket and checked it. It was just about time to leave—Anathema did not appreciate lateness[10] in general, and certainly not at her own wedding. He smiled to himself as he thought about it, forgetting momentarily about the suit and Crowley and all the other garbage floating around his brain. Oh, how he so loved a good wedding! Taking one last look around his flat, satisfied that he wasn’t missing anything, Aziraphale turned off the lights in his flat and left for what was sure to be a most joyous union of one Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer.

* * *

Anathema’s wedding was a touch more… occult-themed than Aziraphale might have preferred, but he had to admit that she’d done quite a nice job with the arrangements. It was an outdoor wedding—suitable for the lovely spring they’d been having thus far—set in in the countryside. Thick trees grew tall around them, sunlight streaming through the leaves in golden rays. Various pagan and Wiccan symbols were strung up around the tent under which both the ceremony and reception were to take place, while a tarot card reader set up a stand by the open bar, ready to perform readings for any interested guests following the wedding.

As he approached the throng of guests, Aziraphale was surprised to find Anathema mingling among them, outfitted in a white dress paired with a black veil, an homage to the darker parts of her family background[11]. When she saw Aziraphale, she turned to him, beaming.

“Aziraphale!” she greeted, wrapping him up in a big hug. “So glad you came.”

Aziraphale chuckled as he pulled away. “I’m surprised to see you out here with all your guests,” he said. “My dear, shouldn’t you be getting ready for your big day? It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride beforehand, you know!”

She smoothed her hands over her dress. “Oh, please,” she said. “That whole tradition is just antiquated nonsense designed around meaningless gender ro—oh, my God. Get him out of here. Why is he here? I told him to wait for the ceremony to start.”

Standing over by the tarot card reader was the one and only Newton Pulsifer, wearing a suit with sleeves that were just a little bit too short. At Anathema’s outburst, all the wedding guests turned to look at him. Newt, oblivious as he always was, took no notice and continued to ask the tarot card reader what, in all probability, were the most inane questions a person could think of. Acting swiftly, the bridesmaids, who all wore matching deep purple dresses and witch hats, swarmed around Newt and guided him out of the pavilion like a squadron of Secret Service agents might handle the President of the United States.

Once the commotion settled down, Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on Anathema’s shoulder. She smiled, seeming grateful to have him there. Then she peered over his shoulder and waved at someone behind him. 

“Oh, Aziraphale,” she whispered. “Crowley’s here.”

Aziraphale froze. “Crowley? Wh—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish before someone tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. 

He had new sunglasses on. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed. They were rather nice, he thought, with more of an aviator shape to them than his old pair. His nose also looked better; it was no longer bandaged, and the only evidence of injury that remained was some light bruising. 

“Crowley! What are you doing here?” Aziraphale said. He shuffled his feet, suddenly embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t quite place. “Erm, not that I’m not pleased to see you. I just had no idea you knew Anathema and Newt.”

As if he’d sensed Aziraphale’s discomfort, Crowley smirked. “Well, I don’t, really,” he said, gesturing to the person standing beside him. “I’m a ‘plus one.’” He punctuated this statement with air quotes.

Crowley’s date was not quite the kind of person Aziraphale would have expected. They were… somewhat dirty, with stringy hair and bangs that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in days or perhaps weeks. The black pants they wore had a fairly significant hole just above the knee, while the suit jacket was ill-fitted and bunched up at the shoulders. On their face was poorly blended makeup intended to hide several blemishes. They offered a hand to Aziraphale.

“I’m Beelzebub,” they said. “Second cousin of the bride, father’s side. Thank God that annoying bastard is dead.”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously, hesitant to take the handshake. When he finally did, their hand was cold and clammy. “Right,” he said. 

They wiped their palms on the jacket, then glanced around the pavilion as if looking for someone. “I don’t really understand the point of weddings, to be honest. Seems like a waste of money. A courthouse wedding is much better. They don’t have any annoying decorations.”

“I completely agree. Courthouse weddings are so much more efficient, too. They just cut right to the chase. Way less drama, am I right?” 

Aziraphale grit his teeth. He knew that voice and that annoying, condescending laugh. When he turned around, there he was, Gabriel Porterson IV[12], standing in his neatly pressed, gray tailored suit and perfectly combed hair. He’d been invited to the wedding, Aziraphale suspected, as part of the groom’s party; he was a lawyer who’d helped Newt’s uncle out of a significant spot of legal trouble a few years back. He also happened to be an avid gardener in his spare time and was the current president of the local florist and gardeners’ association. Aziraphale often butted heads with him during their monthly meetings, as he disagreed with many decisions that had been made under his leadership. Alas, this endeavor didn’t usually end well for Aziraphale, who was typically forced to sit down and keep his mouth shut.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said with a curt nod. “How are you?”

“Aziraphale, good to see you! God, you look great.” There it was again, that arrogant smile. Gabriel patted him on the back. “But have you considered signing up for that gym membership I told you about? Looks like you could probably use it, and it’s never too late to form healthy habits.”

Aziraphale bristled inwardly, trying not to let his annoyance show too much on his face. “Nope, can’t say that I have. I’ve been quite busy with the shop lately.”

Meanwhile, Beelzebub had been gaping at Gabriel[13] since he’d joined their conversation, looking not unlike a fish. Underneath that splotchy makeup, Aziraphale thought he might have even seen a blush beginning to form on their face.

“Yes, I-I agree,” they managed to stammer out, refusing to look Gabriel in the eye. “Healthy habits are good… for people.”

“Ooookay.” Gabriel scrunched up his forehead. “Well, I’m going to go say hi to some people I’m obligated to make small talk with. I will see you all at the reception, I’m sure. I hear those are fun for some people. Not me, but, you know. Some people.”

With that, he took his leave and made his way into the growing throng of people that gathered in the pavilion. Shortly after, Beelzebub mumbled some sort of goodbye and marched off in search of God knows what, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to themselves. Aziraphale _hmm_’d, trying to find the proper words to describe Crowley’s date. “Well, Beelzebub seems—”

“I owe them a favor, so—”

“Hm.”

They both lapsed into silence, staring at one another.

“So, how’s the um…” Aziraphale pointed to his head. “You know. Are you feeling any better?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Crowley’s head bobbed as he spoke. “Loads better, yeah.” He pointed at his nose. “This is a lot better too.”

“Looks like it,” Aziraphale said, smiling softly.

Crowley swallowed. Even behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale suspected that he was having trouble meeting his gaze.

“I quite like your new sunglasses, Crowley,” he said. “I’m sorry about your old ones, though. I know you were really attached to them.”

“Yes, I was pretty upset at that, wasn’t I?” Crowley said with a small laugh. “Well, it’s alright now, I suppose. Probably needed new ones, anyway.”

Just as Aziraphale was about to respond, calls for guests to seat themselves rang out, and he found himself sliding into a chair somewhere in the third row so that he had a good view. To his surprise, Crowley snuck in next to him, opting not to sit next to Beelzebub, who lurked in the seat directly behind Gabriel.

The ceremony itself was brief yet lovely, in Aziraphale’s refined opinion. There was only a small portion dedicated to reciting spells designed to invoke ancient magicks, and Anathema’s vows were beautifully written and poignant (enough to make Aziraphale nearly reach for his handkerchief to dab at his eyes.) Newt, predictably, fumbled through most of his vows, but they were endearing nonetheless.

As soon as the reception began, the guests flooded the open bar, ordering all varieties of wine and mixed drinks to get themselves hammered as quickly as possible—standard wedding stuff, really. Aziraphale polished off a couple glasses of the champagne that had been making the rounds via the waitstaff as he chatted with some folks he recognized from around his neighborhood in London.

Soon enough, he drifted off towards the dessert table, unable to resist such a scrumptious temptation. He was contemplating which pastries on the buffet table to try first when he was accosted by a distressed Crowley, who was breathing hard and practically flailing his limbs. As a waiter passed by, Crowley grabbed one of the champagne flutes off the tray, drained its contents in one large gulp, and slammed it down on the table next to him.

Aziraphale looked on in shock. “Dear boy, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine,” Crowley said as he picked up the empty flute, waving it around like some kind of flag. Then he moved in closer to Aziraphale and lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. “They _kissed_ me. Beelzebub kissed me. Do you know what they smell like? I don’t think they’ve ever touched a stick of deodorant in their entire life.”

Aziraphale, who at this point was nearing the edge of drunk, giggled. And what started as a giggle slowly grew into hysteria. “Oh, you poor thing,” he gasped out, between bouts of laughter. 

Crowley did not look nearly as amused. “I don’t appreciate your lack of empathy for my situation here, Aziraphale,” he said. “That was traumatizing.”

This, of course, set Aziraphale off into another fit of laughter. After another minute or so, he wheezed a couple times and pulled himself together. He wiped a couple stray tears from under his eyes. “My dear boy, I am truly sorry for your plight,” he said. “What on Earth do you think possessed them to kiss you, of all people?”

As Aziraphale turned his head to search the crowd, he found the answer to his question: Beelzebub hovered just behind Gabriel, staring at the back of his head in longing.

“Dunno, think it had something to do with making that Gabriel prick jealous,” Crowley grumbled as he sipped on more champagne. “All I know is I’m going to be having nightmares about this for months.”

Aziraphale followed his lead and plucked a flute from a tray as another waiter came by their table. After he’d finished it—perhaps too quickly, but he was too tipsy to care much—Crowley looked at him and said, “Dance with me, angelface.”

“Oh, no, I don’t dance[14].” Aziraphale shook his head vigorously, his eyes widening. 

“Ah, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Nothing you ever suggest has been _fun_ for me, Crowley,” he said, half-joking.

Nonetheless, when Crowley held his hand out for him, he found himself grabbing ahold anyway, letting him lead the way onto the dance floor. The song was mid-tempo, not quite a romantic slow dance but not a party starter, either. Crowley picked a spot somewhere towards the edge, a little distant from other people that had coupled up. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s hip, which caused the latter to tense up.

“Relax, I’m not going to bite you,” Crowley said, teasing.

Aziraphale tried to relax as Crowley clasped his other hand in his, and the two of them started to move. At first it was just a simple box step. 1, 2, 3, 4. He let out a breath as he realized he was getting the hang of this whole dancing thing. Unconsciously, he and Crowley moved closer together, adjusting their position so that they could start to spin. His partner had taken his sunglasses off before they’d gone to the dance floor, so they were left with no barriers between them; Aziraphale could scarcely look him in the eyes, but when he did, there was a strange emotion in Crowley’s gaze, that same softness he’d seen the night he got his concussion, and it did something to Aziraphale’s stomach.

As they twirled around one another, Aziraphale had the distinct sensation that he and Crowley dangled on the edge of something dangerous, something mystical, something… ineffable. Beyond their understanding. Since the day he’d moved into that damn shop across the street, Aziraphale had been drawn to him again and again, for reasons he could never manage to parse out. It was like they were meant to permanently be in one another’s orbits, for better or for worse.

When the song ended, they stepped away from one another awkwardly, as if breaking out of a trance or a spell. Crowley muttered something about needing to check on Beelzebub, while Aziraphale decided he would try and track down Anathema to wish her well. After finding her distracted by the cake, which she was smashing into Newt’s face, he decided to make the rounds and introduce himself to some new people.

Guests began to filter out somewhere around nine or ten, shuffling to nearby hotels to sleep off their inevitable hangovers. Most decorations had either fallen down or started to do so, and empty plates and glasses littered all the tables, much to the catering crew’s obvious chagrin. Aziraphale walked out towards the edge of the pavilion to take in more fresh air. By now, night had fallen, and the sky filled with a smattering of constellations that twinkled in the darkness. Back in the city, Aziraphale could never see the stars. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back to gaze at them, his head humming pleasantly from all the champagne he’d drunk.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” It was Crowley again. He’d come to stand beside him. “The stars and all that.”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “It truly is.”

A certain comfort passed over Aziraphale, a kind of peace he rarely felt in the presence of another human being—let alone Crowley. But it felt right, like they were meant to be there in that moment, together, taking in the beautiful, starry night. He felt his heart flutter for the briefest of seconds, then pressed a hand to his chest. 

Oh, dear, Aziraphale thought as he looked over at Crowley. This was Not Good At All.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10Anathema’s famous occultist great-grandmother had left in her will a book filled with all of her predictions for her future descendants, down to the dates of their births, deaths, and midlife crises. Due to the fact that her entire life had been predicted for her since before she was even born, Anathema was never late for a single event—not even a minute.[return to text]
> 
> 11Several of Anathema’s ancestors had been burnt at the stake for witchcraft. Pretty standard stuff for existing as a woman in the 16th and 17th centuries.[return to text]
> 
> 12Gabriel Joseph David Alexander Porterson IV was an Oxford alum, a big shot defense lawyer, and the next in line to inherit a sum of wealth so large he could most likely afford to buy and rule over his own principality someday. He was also probably the most obnoxious person that Aziraphale had ever encountered in his life, even more so than the man who had once yelled at him for over an hour when he found out Aziraphale did not have his favorite type of rhododendrons in stock.[return to text]
> 
> 13Beelzebub—whose real name is not worth disclosing for the purposes of this story, as the nickname perfectly encapsulates their personality and general demeanor—had been nursing a rather unfortunate crush on Gabriel since they’d read an exposé in the local paper about how he’d defended a man during a recent court case who was in all likelihood guilty. They most ardently admired his ruthless tactics in the courtroom and brutal efficiency in all his dealings.[return to text]
> 
> 14Strictly, this wasn’t true—Aziraphale did know how to dance in the sense that he was quite adept at certain styles of dance no one had done since the 18th century. However, when it came to a more modern dance floor, or heaven forbid a club, he was utterly hopeless.[return to text]


	5. Capital-F Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsure of what to do about his feelings, Crowley consults his assistant Adam, who is definitely a licensed therapist and not an eleven-year-old boy, for advice. This ends about as well as you might expect.

If you’d asked Aziraphale four months ago where he would be on a day off from tending the shop, he might have said one of the following:

1\. Taking a stroll through the neighborhoods of London, perusing window displays.

2\. Loitering outside a local cafe, sipping exotic tea blends at a leisurely pace while he watched the people go by.

3\. Shopping for a new pocket watch or ascot he probably couldn’t afford.

He most certainly would not have said, “Feeding the ducks in St. James Park with his one-time enemy and business rival, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley of Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things.” Yet here he was on a summer afternoon on his day off, doing just that. Admittedly, it was a gorgeous day, sunny and pleasant with a slight breeze; so when Crowley showed up at his flat unexpectedly with an invitation to go for a walk, well, Aziraphale thought it would be such a waste to refuse. 

He had been contemplating this strange situation he’d found himself in as he stared pensively into the pond, and he guessed he must’ve stared for too long, because Crowley remarked, “Why the long face, Aziraphale? Look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost or something.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale shook his head, perhaps a bit too aggressively. “I’m quite alright, dear boy. Just thinking about something.”

Crowley tore a piece from the bread slice he was holding and flicked it into the water. Several ducks flocked around the soggy bread, nipping at it with their bills. “Guess that solves that, then,” he said, only somewhat sarcastically. 

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth tugged upwards, but he didn’t respond. He’d come to expect Crowley’s sudden turns of moods, the way he might go from being perfectly pleasant to grumbling and gruff within seconds. Crowley pursed his lips, taking a gander at his surroundings. He had taken off his jacket for once and draped it across the back of the bench they were sitting on; underneath, he wore a maroon V-neck that left some skin exposed. Aziraphale noted this fact, with a slight flush, and decided he would carry on as if he hadn’t. Crowley cocked his arm back to throw another piece of bread into the pond. Two ducks started to fight over it, getting so lost in their battle that they forgot the food entirely, leaving the other ducks to swoop in and take it. As they drifted out into the water, they continued fighting.

“Wonder if it’s some mating ritual,” Crowley said. “Think they’re in heat or something?”

“Crowley! That’s disgusting,” Aziraphale chastised, glancing around to make sure there weren’t any children within earshot. “It’s a lovely day out, and all you can think about is ducks having… having…” He trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.

“It’s alright, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, a teasing edge to his voice. “You can say the word ‘sex.’”

“No, it’s not—” Aziraphale’s eyes, of their own accord, went right to that exposed patch of skin at Crowley’s collarbones. Then he straightened up so his back no longer touched the bench and folded his hands, prim and proper, in his lap. “Look, it’s just not something I feel like discussing at the current moment.”

Crowley was looking directly at him now, easy grin on his face. He said nothing. Aziraphale felt a deep, burning shame, like Crowley was judging him for something, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” He still had that infuriating grin plastered on his face as he leaned in closer, head cocked a little to the side. “We’re both adults here, angelface. I’m sure you’ve had experience with these matters before. Unless… you haven’t?”

“Of course I’ve had—” Aziraphale looked around again. No children still. “_Sex_. But it’s so crude to talk about it in public like this. Families come here all the time!”

Crowley stilled, his smile frozen, his Adam’s apple bobbing prominently as he swallowed, and Aziraphale didn’t miss the way his bravado faltered as soon as he brought up the fact he’d engaged in sexual activity before. He didn’t know why Crowley was so surprised—he was only human, despite his somewhat prudish outward appearance—and thought maybe he ought to be offended that Crowley would be so shocked he was physical with other people.

And just like that, as if he’d been under some kind of spell that just broke, Crowley pulled away from him, gaze straight out towards the pond. “Never mind that, then,” he said, his voice oddly stilted. “We’ll talk about something else.”

“Yes, I think perhaps we should.” Aziraphale inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh air.

“What d’you think of the Ritz?” Crowley said, crossing his arms over his chest. He slouched down in his seat, resuming his relaxed posture from earlier. “For lunch or something. I mean, these walks have been nice and all, but I reckon we should try something different at some point.”

“The Ritz?” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, dear boy, I’ve always wanted to dine there. But the waiting list… it’s always so long. It gets booked months in advance.”

Crowley shrugged. “I could maybe pull a few strings.”

Aziraphale studied him suspiciously. “Crowley, if you’re thinking of using any sort of physical violence or bribery or… or other illegal means of getting us a table at the Ritz, I suggest you reconsider that plan.”

“Alright, fine, fine,” Crowley said airily. “We’ll do it your way, angelface. I’ll put our names in a few months out.”

Although Crowley’s preferred methods weren’t exactly up to Aziraphale’s moral code, he had to admit he was touched nonetheless that Crowley had thought of him and wanted to continue spending time with him. Something had shifted between them since Anathema’s wedding, and Aziraphale found that he rather liked being around his grouchy neighbor; all this despite having previously wished he would become bankrupt and destitute so he’d move his shop somewhere far, far away. He almost had to laugh at how things had turned out between them.

Aziraphale checked his watch, noting with some surprise that it was already four o’clock in the afternoon. “Oh, dear,” he said. “How has it gotten so late already?”

“Bugger. I’m s’posed to meet someone for a drink in an hour or so,” Crowley said as he peered over at the watch. “I’ll give you a lift home, yeah?”

“No!” Aziraphale coughed. “Uh, no thank you. That’s really very nice of you to offer, but I think I’d rather walk instead.”

Even behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell Crowley’s eyes were narrowed. “No, no, angelface,” he said. “I insist.”

Aziraphale thought to himself, _well, perhaps I should take him up on his offer, if he’s being so kind as to offer me a ride home_. Then he thought about the other times he’d been a passenger in Crowley’s vintage Bentley, hurtling along London streets at a speed that genuinely made him fear for his own life. The image of Crowley flipping the bird to drivers next to him and cutting people off if they so much as took too long to turn came to Aziraphale’s mind, and he gulped.

“Well, it’s just…” Aziraphale glanced at the ground, suddenly embarrassed. His voice softened. “You go too fast for me, Crowley[15]."

“What are you on about?” Crowley took his sunglasses off, waving them around his face in a flurry. “I’m a perfectly safe driver.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment about the best way to go about telling Crowley he was completely and utterly incorrect on this matter. “See, I’m not entirely sure that driving close to 130 kilometers per hour in a crowded metropolitan area is considered ‘safe driving’ under any circumstances.”

Crowley thought for a moment, the tip of his sunglasses’s earpiece poking his lower lip. “Alright, I’ll go 100. Just for you.”

Aziraphale sighed, concluding it was useless to argue the point.

“Deal.”

* * *

“A tartan-patterned bowtie? I mean, where does he even get things that hideous, anyway?” Crowley sneered. He had his face pressed up against the window, staring across the street to where Aziraphale stood on his shop’s stoop, bent down to pick up the daily paper. “A bloody eyesore, is what it is. ‘Specially when I know he’s got much nicer ones to wear. You agree with me, right Adam?”

“Mister Crowley[16], no offense, but can we talk about something else? That’s like the third time this week you’ve asked my opinion on that weird old guy’s new bowtie.”

Crowley whipped around to glare at Adam, who was poking at a leaf, presumably to see if the plant had been watered enough (despite the amount of times Crowley had reminded him not to touch any of the merchandise like that). “His name is Aziraphale,” he said. “And I haven’t talked about him that much.”

“Him?” Adam said. “I was just talking about the bowtie thing. But honestly, you do talk about him a lot.”

Crowley huffed, indignant at… whatever it was that Adam was implying. Did he enjoy spending time around Aziraphale, even though he found the company of most people repulsive? Yes, although he might be reluctant to admit so. But he didn’t think he paid any more attention to his across-the-street neighbor than any other person someone might call a friend.

“Why don’t you just ask him out on a date?” Adam said.

The spray bottle in Crowley’s hand nearly slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor. “Do what now?”

“A date. You know, like take him to dinner or something,” Adam said. “Or, I don’t know, whatever other lame things adults like to do for fun. Sometimes my dad takes my mum bowling.”

“What the devil would you know about dating? You’re like ten years old, tops.”

Adam frowned. “I’m eleven.”

“Same difference,” Crowley said. “I don’t even like him that much anyway. He’s kind of annoying. Tries to pretend he’s so innocent or whatever. It’s bollocks, is what it is.”

“Yeah, you just spend half your days off with him and spy on him through the window.” Adam had a smirk firmly planted on his face now. “Face it, Mister Crowley. You’ve got a crush.”

Crowley shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose, willing away the image of Adam and all his little demon friends—the _Them_ or whatever nonsense they called themselves—singing that stupid song about K-I-S-S-I-N-G. He sent his thanks to whoever was listening above or below that Adam was by himself.

“I have no such thing,” he hissed. “I don’t get _crushes_. I do the crushing. Of my business competitors and… and other people. So no romantic entanglements of any kind to be found here.” He pointed at his chest, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity and pride.

“Uh-huh.”

Damn this kid. One of these days he really ought to fire him, Crowley thought. Too bad the little miscreant had proven himself to be somewhat useful around the shop, and Crowley was very much in favor of using other people to do things for him.

“Like I said, you really should just ask him out,” Adam said. “Get it over with.”

“And I think you really should consider shutting the hell up before I have half a mind to fire you,” Crowley said.

Thankfully, Adam listened to his warning and went back to performing his normal duties as an assistant, like wiping dust off the shelves and mopping the floors. Crowley made a hmph sound, grumbling to himself as he resumed what he’d been doing before this whole Aziraphale diversion, which was counting his drawer. But Adam’s words kept drifting in and out of his head as he tried to count, and he lost his place several times, forcing him to reshuffle the cash in his hand and start again. He and Aziraphale. On a date. He could hardly imagine it. Ridiculous was what it was.

So why the bloody hell did his heart do that damn stuttering thing every time he thought about it?

He froze halfway through counting the notes as he realized Adam might actually be right.

_Oh, God._

* * *

When Aziraphale returned to his shop one afternoon, after perusing an outdoor market with Crowley, he found Anathema Device-Pulsifer standing next to some tulips, sniffing them carefully.

“Goodness, me. How on Earth did you get in here?” Aziraphale said, more bewildered than anything else.

“Picked the lock,” Anathema said airily, as if she hadn’t just violated several city laws. She placed a finger under the bulb of an orange tulip and lifted it up, studying it with a slight frown. “You really should get better ones, you know. Not safe the way they are now.”

“You know what, I’m not even going to bother asking anything else,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Between you and Crowley, I swear everyone I spend time around is far more inclined to criminal activity than I.”

At this, Anathema perked up, abandoning her study of the flowers.

“You spend time with Crowley?” she said. The corners of her lips curled up. “Hmm, how curious.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes affectionately, trotting over to the counter, where he spread out some colored tissue paper to wrap a bouquet in; he had a customer coming in around two o’clock to pick up the flowers. He started to assemble and arrange the flowers, working with his trademark precision and delicacy.

“You know, he’s… not quite as bad as I thought he was,” Aziraphale said, each word carefully chosen and drawn out. He certainly didn’t want to give Anathema the wrong idea. That would be an entirely different headache to deal with, were he to do such a thing.

“Wow, it’s almost as if you shouldn’t have judged the man without knowing him,” Anathema said, her tone lightly teasing. 

Aziraphale eyed her from the side, still focused on putting together the bouquet on the counter, looping the ribbon through the knot and tying it tight. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”

He opened his mouth again, as if to say something more—like, for example, that he sometimes thought more about Crowley than he ought to, especially since the wedding—but thought better of it. Maybe another day, he told himself. When he felt braver.

* * *

Crowley had intended to ask him out. He really had. Several times over the past week, he’d picked up the shit landline phone in his flat and dialed the number for Aziraphale’s shop, only to hang up as soon as he heard the pleasant greeting: “Hello! You’ve reached A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers. This is Aziraphale, how can I make your day a little bit brighter?”

Aziraphale had even complained to him about it one day during one of their lunch excursions (which they’d taken to as of late, another recent development in their strange, ever-growing friendship). Sitting across from Crowley at a neighborhood bakery, picking at a buttered croissant, he’d said, “I keep getting the strangest calls at the shop. Whoever it is just keeps hanging up as soon as I answer the phone! It’s driving me a little mad, if I’m being totally honest, and you know I’m not the sort to lose my patience easily.”

“Hm. That’s strange,” Crowley had said, pushing his sunglasses up his nose to make sure they weren’t slipping and trying to ignore his rapidly increasing heart rate. Was he sweating? Someone should’ve turned down the heat. Maybe he’d complain to the manager about it. 

The day following their bakery stop, Crowley went to Adam once again, bemoaning his misfortune and woe. He moved around the shop in a dramatic fashion, waving his arms in the air as he spoke, his voice nearly at a whine. “I’m pathetic,” he said at last, once he’d settled down. He had found his way back behind the counter, forehead now cradled in his hands. “Look at me, a grown man who can’t even ask someone out on a date. Pathetic.”

“You’ve got to snap out of this!” Adam said and spritzed Crowley a couple times with a spray bottle.

Crowley flinched in the wake of the oncoming spray. “Ack!” he coughed out. Then he composed himself and flicked the offending water droplets off his jacket sleeves. “The hell was that for?”

Adam spritzed him again. “Being an idiot.” 

“Enough of that,” Crowley said and snatched the bottle from his hands.

“Well, if you can’t ask the guy out, you should at least try to get his attention somehow,” Adam said. “You can’t just sit around and wait for him to figure out how you feel.”

“Get his attention,” Crowley repeated, murmuring, thinking to himself.

It wasn’t half bad advice, even if it had come from an eleven-year-old. Get his attention? Crowley could do that. Should he call the baker down the street, ask if she could prepare a tray of his favorite pastries? Or maybe he could try getting one of those new edible arrangements he’d heard about? And of course, he could make a nice bouquet to go along with it! With daisies and everything! He would love it.

Crowley smacked his forehead. For God’s sake, what was he even thinking? This wasn’t like him at all, to get tongue-tied around other people or to think that they had nice smiles and a funny way of explaining things that he wouldn’t mind listening to all day. In all his previous relationships, _he’d_ been the pursued, the one that didn’t catch feelings, the one that broke it off when he inevitably had no need of the relationship anymore. This time, Crowley didn’t have the upper hand, and he decided he did not like that very much at all.

That settled it: he would get Aziraphale’s attention, but perhaps not in the way that Adam had suggested he go about it. And maybe, just maybe, Crowley’s little “problem” might resolve itself if he could just get Aziraphale mad enough to never want to speak with him again.

“Adam,” Crowley said, emerging an hour later from his back room with a poster in hand. “I’ve got a job for you.”

So, with Crowley’s careful instructions, Adam ventured out into the neighborhood—across the street, more specifically—and stood on the sidewalk, just far enough away from Aziraphale’s shop front so as to not be considered on his property. Crowley watched by the window as Adam directed passerby away from A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers and towards Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things. It was just a little friendly competition. They were business rivals, after all; how had Crowley forgotten that important detail?

The phone rang not twenty minutes later, with an obviously irritated Aziraphale on the line. “Hello? Crowley, are you there?”

Crowley’s throat tightened.

“Erm, yes,” he said. “It’s me.” He paused. “Crowley.”

“Yes, well. If you have a spare minute this afternoon, could you possibly stop by my shop today?” Aziraphale said, his tone cool, even. This concerned Crowley—Aziraphale never sounded so expressionless in normal circumstances.

“Yeah, sure, sure. ‘Course I can stop by,” Crowley said, willing his voice to stay calm. He tried a joke. “Should I be worried?”

“Nothing to worry about, dear boy. I’d just like to speak with you a moment.” The white-hot fury behind these words informed Crowley that he did, in fact, have something to worry about. 

A spasm rocked Crowley’s chest, and his throat tightened even more, constricting his breathing to the point where he felt a bit lightheaded. He clutched his phone so tightly his fingers ached. What in the bloody hell had he been thinking, pissing off Aziraphale like that? If he kept at it, he was going to lose the closest friend he’d possibly ever had, let alone the one person he had… romantic feelings for.

“Crowley?”

“Right, yeah. I’m still here. I’ll come over.”

Before he could say anything else that would make him look worse, he slammed the phone down, not even giving Aziraphale a chance to say “goodbye” or “see you soon” or “rot in hell, you bastard.” Crowley thought that was for the best.

Somewhere between the process of walking outside and crossing the street, Crowley decided he had to make everything right again. He wasn’t going to lose Aziraphale—no, he intended to do quite the opposite. He had something he wanted to say, dammit, and he wasn’t backing out this time. When he reached Aziraphale’s, the shop owner himself was watching him through the glass, an expression of simmering anger on his face.

Crowley looked right at him. Then he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and pushed open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15In Aziraphale’s defense, Crowley did, in fact, drive too fast. However, in most cases aside from that, Aziraphale’s definition of “too fast” was slightly above that of a turtle’s shuffle.[return to text]
> 
> 16Adam had started calling Crowley “Mister Crowley” after discovering that it annoyed the latter quite a bit, but not enough for him to kick Adam out of the shop.[return to text]


	6. Collision Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale has a Moment, Adam talks more sense into Crowley, and Aziraphale and Crowley collide… in more ways than one.

Eerie silence. That was the phrase that came to Crowley’s mind as he stepped inside Aziraphale’s shop, his footfalls the only sound against the polished wooden floors. The store, which normally had at least one or two customers puttering around this time of day[1], was completely empty save for Aziraphale, who stood behind the counter, drumming his fingers. He looked liked he’d been waiting for Crowley ever since he hung up. A soft, pleasant sonata of some kind floated in the air as he entered, and Crowley realized Aziraphale had started humming to himself.

“Hey, ‘Ziraphale,” Crowley mumbled, his mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara desert in the summer. He scratched his forehead with his thumb and hoped he looked calmer than he felt.

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s nod in his direction was cold, curt, lips set in a thin line. His blue eyes, normally full of mirth, were quietly furious. Crowley bobbed his head as he glanced around the store. Aziraphale had put in new flower displays, he noticed, with bursts of pink and orange for the summer season. He pointed to one and said, “These look good.”

“Why did you do it?”

As Aziraphale stared him down, Crowley thought. He could play dumb, pretend he had no idea what he was talking about, that of course it hadn’t been him, that Adam had gone outside on his own against Crowley’s wishes—but he knew Aziraphale would suss out his lie immediately. Maybe it was better to just tell him the truth. Although “telling the truth” was a concept largely unfamiliar to Crowley, he figured perhaps there was no time like the present to start.

“Well, I—”

Aziraphale didn’t let him continue.

“Imagine this for me, Crowley: I come home from lunch. I see that… that _assistant_ of yours parading around, directing _my_ customers away and into your shop, and I can’t help but think you must have put him up to it! This whole bloody affair simply reeks of your dirty business tactics!”

“See, the thing—”

Aziraphale was no longer looking at Crowley. Instead, he was pacing back and forth behind the counter, his hands waving in the air as he ranted. His voice was growing steadily louder by the second. “Crowley, do you even have the slightest idea how stupid I feel right now? Not only did I lose business for the day, but it was also at the hands of someone I’d grown to trust. ”

“I’m sor—”

“Here I thought we were finally getting along, having a good time, even becoming… friends, and then you do something like this? Were you just trying to get to know me so you could tear down my business as soon as you got the chance?” He looked back at Crowley, having stopped his pacing about. “No, I see it all clearly now. We’re not friends. Perhaps we never were. No, no certainly not friends, and definitely not—”

He froze, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open a little. A flush formed on his cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he said, and his voice was suddenly much quieter. “I… I’ve said too much.”

Without hesitating, Crowley stepped forward, moving so that he was behind the counter, his heart beating in double time. “Definitely not what, Aziraphale?”

No response. Crowley took another step and prayed he was right about this.

“Definitely not…?” He started to repeat the question but found himself trailing off as he watched Aziraphale, who closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. But still he stayed where he was, even as Crowley kept moving towards him. With a few more steps, he’d closed the gap between them.

Time slowed as they came within inches of each other, and Crowley felt a sensation like sweet honey run down his throat and into his chest. Aziraphale’s gaze dipped down to Crowley’s mouth, then to the exposed patch of skin by his collarbones (Crowley was briefly grateful that he’d thought to wear a tight v-neck that day). Tentatively, Aziraphale placed a hand on his chest, and Crowley half-exhaled, half-moaned at the contact.

“Fucking Christ, angelface,” he muttered. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale moved first, balling his fists in Crowley’s jacket towards his body as they collided in a rough kiss. A strange, strangled noise left Crowley’s throat, a desperate sound that made Aziraphale move closer and weave his fingers through Crowley’s hair. His heart hammering as Aziraphale ran his tongue over his bottom lip, Crowley thought he might just burst apart at the seams, unraveling until there was nothing left. He fumbled for the door to the storage room, cool metal on his palm as he turned the knob and pushed it open. 

Aziraphale made no objection as Crowley pulled both of them into the room, instead letting out a soft noise when the door closed. Surging forward, Crowley pushed Aziraphale back until he hit the shelves, pressing their bodies together, consumed by a need to get _closer, closer, closer_. Several books tumbled off the shelves and onto the floor with a crash, but the sound seemed very far away to Crowley, who was now trailing his lips down Aziraphale’s throat.

“Crow—_Jesus_,” Aziraphale breathed out as Crowley sunk his teeth into a sensitive patch of skin, just above his collarbone, and rocked into him. At the sound of Aziraphale swearing, Crowley groaned and bucked his hips, bringing their mouths together again.

Aziraphale suddenly pulled away, breathing hard. Then he reached up to caress Crowley’s face, the skin of his palms soft against his cheeks, and the whole thing was just so fucking _tender_. Heat pooled in Crowley's chest the longer he looked at Aziraphale, who looked so peaceful, like a genuine angel, then moved down to his groin. He surged forward again, capturing his lips once more while Aziraphale tugged the leather jacket off his body. It dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap, and Crowley wondered how he’d managed to keep it on so long when every inch of his skin felt like it was burning.

He trailed his hands down towards Aziraphale’s waistline and held in a breath as he waited to be stopped. He didn’t stop him. Crowley could hear his breath coming in short spurts now as he fumbled for the zipper on Aziraphale’s pants and pulled it down. He undid the button with a flick of his thumb, heat coiling once more in his belly as he noticed how hard Aziraphale already was. One stroke up his length was enough to elicit a whimper.

Crowley stared Aziraphale in the eyes, his gaze heated, and found a mirror of his own lust. A primal thing that Crowley had never seen from the normally restrained Aziraphale, and it made everything suddenly seem more urgent. He formed a question with his eyes, hoping Aziraphale would understand:

_Are you sure?_

Aziraphale gave a barely perceptible nod, but it was enough.

Crowley got down on his knees, feeling a bit like he was praying—praying to this infernal, fussy, angelic man that had driven him insane since the day he’d moved into his shop—and pulled down his trousers. Then he took Aziraphale in his mouth. 

He had certainly done this before many times, often with whatever friends with benefits of the moment he had. But this felt… different. Charged. Each hip thrust from Aziraphale and tug of his hair sent Crowley further and further over the edge until he thought if he had his eyes open, there was a good chance he wouldn’t have been able to see straight. Aziraphale was a flame to him, engulfing every part of Crowley in his wake, and it felt fucking incredible.

Aziraphale finished with a shout, throwing his head back so hard it hit the shelf. Crowley was not far behind, hardly touching himself before he came. For a few moments after, he remained on the floor, sinking down so his legs folded underneath him. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain his breath. Aziraphale wasn’t faring much better, and Crowley could hear his panting.

When they had both calmed down, Crowley rose slowly, still breathing heavily. The silence that had just seemed heated and fiery was now tense and awkward. 

“So that was…”

“Crowley, I…”

As they looked at one another, a forbidden question rose up between them, unspoken:

_What now?_

* * *

By all accounts, Crowley’s vintage 1920s Bentley was a nice car. It was also cramped, a fact that made their current circumstances rather frustrating. Still, Aziraphale tried his damnedest to ignore it, surging forward as he and Crowley locked in a fierce kiss. His hands worked through reddish locks, soft beneath his fingers, while Crowley’s hands skimmed the sides of his body.

A loud, extended honk sounded. Crowley jumped so that his back was no longer pressed up against the wheel while Aziraphale shifted back to the passenger side. He rubbed his hands over the front of his tweed sweater, frowning. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I think I might have gotten a bit carried away there. Apologies, Crowley.”

Crowley blinked a few times, as if in a daze. He touched a couple fingers to swollen lips. “S’alright,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, heat rushing over him. He wasn’t ashamed, per say, of what he and Crowley were doing—as a matter of fact, he was enjoying it quite a lot. But around Crowley, he felt a bit like a teenager, helpless to his own impulses, and that embarrassed him. 

The day in his shop had changed everything, really. It was hard to deny that. 

_What now?_

The answer: a casual arrangement, subject to negotiation if they decided to actually talk about what was going on between them. Truthfully, they hadn’t really discussed the parameters of what their relationship was now; it had just sort of happened after their time in the storage room. Aziraphale knew he should be more concerned about the fact that they had yet to discuss what they even were to each other, let alone broach any real feelings. But it felt too, well… too damn good to worry about it, so he didn’t allow the part of himself that wondered if they could be more than this to grow.

Instead, he grabbed the sides of Crowley’s jacket and pulled him in for another kiss.

* * *

“Alright, listen up.” Crowley grabbed Adam by the shoulders and knelt down so they were at eye level. “I’m only going to be gone for an hour. If anyone walks in, tell them to wait until I get back. If I find out you’ve taken any money out of the cash register or destroyed anything, I will not hesitate to fire you.” He paused. “Or call your parents. Got it?”

Adam nodded, half-rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure, Mister Crowley. Promise I won’t burn down the place or anything,” he said. “Where are you going, anyway? Seems like a load of trouble just to leave for an hour and have me in charge. I’m only eleven, you know.”

Crowley swallowed, grateful as usual for the cover of sunglasses. “I have something… important[18] to take care of.”

He hadn’t been expecting the call. He’d been tied up with one of his plant suppliers—a shifty man who dealt in rare and exotic plants and was truthfully a bit of a prick, but he provided Crowley with merchandise that kept him on top of the competition—when Aziraphale decided to give him a ring and ask if he wanted to stop by his flat that afternoon. Crowley knew he ought to keep his shop open until the end of business hours, but he wasn’t the sort who was readily able to resist temptation. Even as he said yes to Aziraphale’s request, he’d cursed himself inwardly.

A grin spread across Adam’s face. “You’re going to see the weird bowtie man again, aren’t you?”

“Oh, for fu—the last time, his name is Aziraphale,” Crowley said, throwing his hands up.

“So you are seeing him then?”

“That.” Crowley peered at himself in the mirror he kept in his store, which served the dual purpose of both allowing customers to inspect their plants in more detail while also indulging his vanity. He adjusted his jacket collar and placed a stray hair back in line—it’d been such a pain since he’d recently cut off most of it, and sometimes he wished he’d kept it at shoulder length. “Is none of your bloody business.”

“Have you even taken him out on a date yet? Seems a bit rude, if you haven’t.” Adam jumped up on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth in the air. This was another thing Crowley had told him a million times not to do, but he didn’t feel much like arguing with Adam about it at the current moment. “You’re just assuming he wants to spend time with you.”

Crowley hoped the flush on his face wasn’t obvious. “I don’t think I’m in danger of assuming anything like that,” he said, nudging Adam off the counter.

Adam jumped down, shit-eating grin still on his face. “Well then why wouldn’t you take him out? Now you’re just making excuses, Mister Crowley,” he said as he jabbed a finger accusingly at Crowley so that it poked him in the chest.

“Don’t touch me.” Crowley swiped his hand away. “You know, most bosses would’ve fired you by now. I should.”

“You say that at least three times a week.” Adam cocked his head to the side. “But you haven’t done that yet. I don’t think you’ll ever actually fire me.”

Crowley swore right there and then that if Britain ever decided to repeal the national minimum wage he would fire Adam and hire an employee he could pay as little as he did his current assistant, who only required a “weekly allowance” of about four pounds.

“I’m leaving now,” he called out as he pushed open the door and stepped outside.

It was another sunny day, the last in a series of scorching hot but beautiful days they’d had in London. Thankfully—or at least Crowley thought so—it was supposed to storm the next. He strolled across the street, feeling a bit like he was burning under the weight of his jacket, and climbed the rickety staircase to the right of A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers. His knuckles rapped on the wooden door of Aziraphale’s flat once, then twice, then three times for good measure.

As he waited, his conversation with Adam played in his mind over and over again. Even an eleven-year-old twit could see that he didn’t have the balls to confess his real feelings to Aziraphale, much less ask him out on a date, and that he just kept going along with this whole casual sex thing because it was the only type of relationship he’d ever known. The longer he stood outside, hands jammed into his pockets, rocking back and forth nervously on his heels, the more his stomach sank. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Stupid kid. Why did he always have to be right about these things?

He wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand and tried to steady himself by grabbing onto the railing. Eventually, Aziraphale’s voice, chipper as ever, came through the door.

“Come in!” 

Crowley walked inside. The last time he had been in Aziraphale’s flat, he’d been lying on the couch with a concussion, delirious and half-unconscious, so it was no wonder he’d forgotten how… cozy it was. Warm. (Just like Aziraphale, he thought, then dismissed it). The sun filtered through the kitchen window, bathing the whole front room in golden light, while birds twittered outside the open screen. A kettle whistled on the stove, and he watched as Aziraphale lifted it and poured himself a steaming cup of tea. He looked up as Crowley moved into the living room.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale said, soft smile playing at his lips. “I thought you’d never get here.” He abandoned his tea, his shoes making muffled sounds on the carpet as he walked over. When he reached Crowley, he grabbed his hand and leaned in closer. Nothing about this was outside their normal routine, but for some reason it made Crowley’s stomach tighten a little this time. 

“Wouldn’t miss it, angelface.” Crowley could feel how strained his smile was. He glanced around the room, trying to look anywhere but at Aziraphale. He settled on the carpet, a deep burgundy with intricate patterns weaving over its surface. A comforting thumb ran across the back of his palm, and he looked up to see Aziraphale watching him, concerned, his brows turned inwards. Crowley sighed.

“Something’s wrong.”

It wasn’t a question or even a judgement. Just a statement. Aziraphale studied him patiently, looking as if he didn’t expect an explanation but would welcome and accept one regardless. How the hell did he still have such patience for Crowley, who felt about as put together as a wet biscuit? It was almost infuriating.

“Do we always have to do it like this? In this way?” Crowley said, gritting his teeth. Even as he said it, he hated how irritated and abrasive he sounded.

“What do you mean, dear boy?” 

“You know, this.” Crowley gestured between the two of them. “Where we have sex and that’s… that’s it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, dear. I was under the impression that you were alright with us… keeping everything casual,” he said, pulling away a little bit. “But I must have been a bit presumptuous there. We haven’t exactly discussed it, really.”

Of _course_ he was apologizing on behalf of Crowley’s idiocy.

“No, I, look… agh.” Crowley took his hand from Aziraphale’s and rubbed his face. “I mean, yes, technically I was the one who said it because I’m a bloody idiot who really should’ve talked to you already. Listen, I’m really sorry that I… you know, did the thing…” 

“The thing…?” 

Aziraphale still had this look of concern on his face, like he was worried he might have done or said something wrong, and Crowley wanted to wipe it off him and maybe also give a nice shiner to whoever made Aziraphale constantly feel like he was responsible for everything. He took a deep, shuddering breath and thought he might barf all over the carpet he’d been admiring earlier.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry I tried to steal your business, you know, with that silly thing I had Adam do. Ridiculous idea, really.” Crowley realized he was edging into rambling territory but made the decision to ignore this and continue. “Quite stupid of me because what I was actually trying to do was… ask you out.”

Aziraphale was so silent it made Crowley’s insides feel like someone had put them into a blender and hit puree. He put his palms together as if he were praying and pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips, thinking. He blinked a few times.

“You were… pardon me, just making sure I understand you perfectly. When you stole all my customers that day.” Aziraphale paused. “_You were trying to ask me out?_” His voice was much shriller than Crowley anticipated, and he shrank back a little.

He held his hands up and moved further away. “Okay, okay, I know, I understand why you’re upset. I’m a bloody idiot,” he said. “I just—I’m not good at this whole ‘feelings’ thing, really. Always seemed like a bit of a waste to me. But I have them.” He coughed, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t enough air in the room. “For you,” he managed to squeak out. Pathetic.

At this, Aziraphale softened a bit, the hard lines of his face easing and his shoulders relaxing. He sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Crowley?” he said. Then he smiled softly. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

Crowley swallowed, desperately trying to get rid of the lump lodged in his throat. “Well, now you do.”

They looked at one another, and Crowley felt naked without his sunglasses on, like Aziraphale could now see through his eyes to the barest level of his heart. He shivered. And there it was, again, that nagging question that had haunted them both since that day in the store:

_What now?_

Crowley knew what he needed to do.

“If you’re not too mad, I got us reservations at the Ritz,” he said, his voice finally evening out. “I put our names in after we talked about it, all those weeks ago. Thought maybe it’d come in handy, ‘specially since you said I couldn’t blackmail anybody to get in. Which, if you ask me, is taking all the bloody fun out of it, but—”

Aziraphale held up a hand to stop him. The smile was back on his face.

“I’d love to.”

And there it was, finally, that answer to that damn question. They were going to the Ritz. 

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17The only person who knew that Crowley had spent enough time spying on Aziraphale from across the street to know how many customers would be in his shop at any given time was one Adam Young, and Crowley had made it very clear to the “little punk” that if he told anyone, he would end up as fertilizer for his plants.[return to text]
> 
> 18If by important, he meant “snogging the face off his former-business-rival-turned-friend-then-turned-friends-with-benefits-kinda and then shagging him,” then by all means Crowley was correct. But he didn’t have time to explain that to an eleven-year-old boy, nor did he think it would be particularly appropriate.[return to text]


	7. Absolutely Tickety-Boo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s coming to dinner? Spoiler alert: It’s an obscenely nervous Crowley, a grossly oblivious Aziraphale, and their pet Feelings.

Crowley leaned in towards the mirror. He pulled the skin of his cheeks, stretching it like putty. Though it had been months since he’d gotten into that bar fight, there was still a scar from where he’d hit his head. Not only that, but he hadn’t slept much the night before, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy. And when the fuck did his pores get so huge—could it be that his skincare routine[18] was failing him now, at such a crucial time in his life?

Then he slapped himself. Hard.

Although his vanity ensured he spent a considerable amount of time on his appearance, it wasn’t often that he felt insecure about his looks. But it was different with Aziraphale. It always was. With a frustrated groan, he pulled away from the mirror and shrugged into his nicest button-down, the maroon one that someone once told him “brought out his eyes,” whatever the bloody hell that meant. He smoothed down the collar, then popped on his signature jacket. He damn well wasn’t going to wear a blazer, even if they were about to dine at one of the finest restaurants in London.

The phone in his back pocket buzzed furiously, signaling an incoming call. Crowley pulled it out and answered with an impatient swipe, not even bothering to look at who was calling him. “Hello?”

“Ah, Crowley. Is this a bad time?”

It was Aziraphale, and he sounded nervous.

“Angelface, if you’re going to tell me that you’re canceling on me tonight, then I’d rather just hang up now before you get to that part.”

“Of course not! Nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale said. “In fact, I was actually just calling to confirm that we’re still meeting at 6:30. Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting!”

Crowley furrowed his brow and fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. “Yes, still meeting at 6:30,” he said. There was a crash on the other side of the line. “You alright, Aziraphale?” 

“No, no, everything is fine, I promise you.” Aziraphale followed this up with a forced laugh. “In fact, everything is absolutely tickety-boo!”

The line went dead, and Crowley was left holding the receiver in his hand, staring at it in confusion. “Tickety-boo?” he muttered. _Christ, he’s officially lost it, and I’m going on a date with a madman_, he thought.

He shook his head and focused on the fact that Aziraphale had been calling to confirm the time. Surely if he wasn’t interested or was going to cancel, then he wouldn’t have done so (at least, that’s what Crowley told himself). Giving himself one final once-over in the mirror, he smoothed down his jacket and his hair, then walked out the door.

* * *

“Opulent” would have been too mild a word for The Ritz that evening. Delicate crystals hung from chandeliers, and warm light from the candles set the whole dining room aglow. Pristine white tablecloths covered each and every table with nary a stain in sight, while the floors were polished to perfection. Waiters and waitresses walked around with stiff backs, repeating, “How may I serve you, sir? How are you this evening, madam?”

Crowley found the whole affair to be a tad overblown, but Aziraphale lapped up every bit of it like an overeager puppy. As soon as they entered the restaurant, he took it all in with a little gasp and awestruck eyes. If Crowley didn’t know Aziraphale at all, he might have found it grating, but instead it was endearing. He allowed himself a small smile when Aziraphale wasn’t looking.

The hostess seated them at a table that was a comfortable distance from the parties around them, which suited Crowley just fine. He slid into the seat and rubbed his palms over his pants (when had they gotten so sweaty?), grateful for the cover of the tablecloth. Their waitress, who had her hair pulled back in a bun so tight it raised her eyebrows slightly, came by to ask if they’d like anything to drink. Aziraphale, who’d admitted as they walked in that he had studied the menu online before they got there, ordered them champagne.

After the waitress left, Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. “This is wonderful,” he said. “You’ve outdone yourself, dear boy.”

Crowley scratched the back of his neck and fought the urge to bounce his knee. “Ah, don’t mention it.”

“I also wanted to apologize for what happened on the phone earlier,” Aziraphale said. “I’d misplaced my favorite jumper, and the box I was pulling out of my closet nearly fell on my head! I was also just feeling a bit nervous about all this.”

Crowley laughed, suddenly relieved. “That makes two of us, I guess.”

The waitress returned with their champagne and poured them two glasses, twisting her wrist with a flourish to polish the drinks off. Crowley lifted his champagne glass to meet Aziraphale’s. “Cheers,” he said, “to, erm…”

“To a wonderful evening with even better company,” Aziraphale said, jumping in to help him. They clinked their glasses together and took small sips, and Crowley found to his pleasure that the champagne was sweet but not too sweet and just the right amount of bubbly.

Just as he raised it for another sip, Crowley’s glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the immaculate floors. Several people at nearby tables turned to stare at a now red-faced Crowley, who gave his spectators a little sneer in attempt to stop the gawking. A restaurant employee arrived on the scene less than a minute later to sweep up the broken glass, and they avoided Crowley’s gaze and scurried away after they’d finished. Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, fuck. I’m really making a bloody mess of this whole thing, aren’t I?” When he opened them again, Aziraphale was looking at him with a soft smile. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Crowley, dear,” he said. “This has been simply divine so far.”

A warmth not unlike that of a crackling fire filled Crowley’s body, and he relaxed, all the tension easing out of him. Why had he been so nervous? It was only Aziraphale, the nicest goddamned person he’d ever met. He took a sip of the new champagne the waitress brought him and focused on being in the present moment. “Why The Ritz?”

“Pardon?”

Even as Crowley asked the question, he realized it was a bit daft of him. Just a simple look around revealed the answer—the warm lighting, the elegant decor, the piano music. The five-star ambience suited someone of Aziraphale’s taste, and Crowley thought he seemed instantly comfortable sitting in such a nice place.

“Yeah, why here? Why is this the place you’ve always dreamed of going?” Crowley said. Then he paused. “Aside from the fact that they have a half-decent dessert menu.” He paired this last comment with a teasing grin.

“You know, it’s funny you ask,” Aziraphale looked down at his hands, fiddled with the napkin in his lap. “I have quite the taste for luxury now, but that wasn’t always the case.”

Crowley snorted. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Well, it might be hard to imagine, knowing me now,” Aziraphale said, laughing. “But to tell you the truth, I… wasn’t always that way. I grew up in a small town in the countryside. My parents are lovely people, but we didn’t have a lot of money. I suppose it was the dream of one day being able to afford expensive things that kept me going when I was first starting my career in the florist field. That, and I spent several years as a gardener for the Dowling estate, working for an American ambassador and his family. His wife liked to spend money on those in her employ, so I developed what you might call a… a proclivity for extravagant things.”

Crowley paused, unsure of how to respond to Aziraphale admitting something so personal. Truthfully, he’d just assumed Aziraphale popped out of the womb with freshly-manicured nails and a penchant for expensive pocket watches and overpriced pastries. Despite the fact that they’d been friends—and sometimes more than friends—for some time now, he had never considered that Aziraphale came from a more humble upbringing and worked his way to the top. Aziraphale’s initial defensiveness over his shop started to make a lot of sense to Crowley, who felt a deep shame over having held such prejudices for so long. He took another sip of champagne, letting the alcohol loosen his tongue.

“That’s pretty damn impressive, then, that you’ve been so successful here in London,” he said. “I should’ve been asking you for advice about my business this whole bloody time, and I didn’t even know it.”

Aziraphale shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but Crowley could see his effort to fight a smile. “Ah, well, I think you’ve done just fine for yourself, dear boy.” 

“I’ll tell you this, angelface.” Crowley swirled his champagne glass, watching the liquid move. He looked back at Aziraphale, who was watching him with his eyes half-lidded. “You’re always full of surprises.”

“Hopefully in a good way?” he said softly.

“In the best way.”

The waitress, who had taken their orders after Crowley dropped his champagne, arrived with two plates of food. Crowley’s sea bass dinner was arranged in quite an aesthetically pleasing manner. While he himself had never given any thought to presentation other than “put food on plate and consume,” he had to admit he appreciated the effort. Aziraphale gave a delighted little gasp when he received what the menu had termed “Kentish Lamb” and clapped his hands together.

“Oh, this looks delightful!”

Aziraphale ate his food in the same meticulous manner he did everything else, cutting the meat slowly and savoring each bite like it was the last thing he’d ever eat. By contrast, Crowley ate quickly in an attempt to get rid of the remaining nerves he had. Throughout dinner, they chatted about different topics, although most of the conversation was related to Aziraphale’s opinions on the food. Crowley didn’t mind, though—rather, he was enjoying himself a lot. Whenever he was around Aziraphale, life seemed a little less dull, no matter what they were saying to one another or what they were doing.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said with a frown, setting down his knife and fork. “I’ve been blathering on about myself and my opinions for this whole meal. I’ve hardly asked you anything about yourself!”

“S’alright,” Crowley said. “I’m pretty boring when you get down to it, really.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale scoffed. “You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”

“Well, shucks, angelface.” A wry grin crossed Crowley’s face. “You’re making me blush here.”

“That’s the goal,” Aziraphale teased. “But I’ve just realized I hardly know anything about where you came from. And since I already told you my sad story, I feel it’s only fair I ask the same of you.”

“Not much to tell,” Crowley said without hesitation. Then he sighed, realizing he was resorting to the evasive tactics he’d used his entire life when it came to his past and that if he wanted this to work with Aziraphale, he’d probably have to get used to opening up a bit. “Actually, that’s not totally true. I just don’t usually talk about it. Wasn’t great.”

“You don’t have to, if you prefer. I won’t pressure you,” Aziraphale said gently. 

“No, no, it’s alright. Actually, I feel a bit like a dickhead for complaining about it, ‘specially since we did have money. A lot of it.” Crowley fiddled with the ring he wore on his right middle finger, a thick, gold band that had once belonged to his grandfather. “But my parents were… cold, I guess is the best way to describe it. Distant. And they were never pleased with anything, ever. Especially not me, though I can’t say I was exactly a model child.” He let out a short, harsh laugh. 

Aziraphale softened, diverting his attention from his meal to reach across the table and grab one of Crowley’s hands in his. “I’m sorry, Crowley. No one deserves that.” And although Crowley had touched Aziraphale before, something like electricity shot through his skin at the contact. 

By their third glass of champagne, Crowley had finally shaken off the last of his nerves and was feeling more at ease, his typical banter with Aziraphale rolling naturally off his tongue. The entirety of their conversation during dessert, of course, was nonexistent, mostly due to Aziraphale’s complete absorption in eating his cheesecake. But Crowley didn’t mind and was pleased that his date (date—it still felt surreal to think of Aziraphale that way) was enjoying himself.

When the check came, Aziraphale looked at Crowley and started to reach for his pockets. Crowley stopped him. “No, I’ve got it. Least I can do, since I’ve tried to steal your business multiple times over the course of our relationship.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, laughing.

Outside, the night was cool and pleasant, but warm enough that Crowley could take off his jacket and sling it over his shoulder. The two of them meandered through the streets, enjoying the bustle of London on a weekend night and the people passing by in pairs and groups to bounce from bar to bar, ready to enjoy the festivities. Streetlights formed warm spotlights as they passed underneath them. Eventually, they found their way back to the street corner they shared opposite one another, pausing outside Aziraphale’s shop.

“Crowley, this was wonderful,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Then don’t,” Crowley said. His chest felt like liquid jelly at Aziraphale’s compliment. “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m just glad you had a good time. Let me walk you to your door?”

“Of course. Who am I to refuse such a gentlemanly offer?”

They walked up the steps to Aziraphale’s flat, one behind the other, until they came to the balcony outside his door. Aziraphale turned and smiled, crow’s feet crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Well, I suppose this is it. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

His eyes dipped down to Crowley’s mouth, and the latter, not one to miss signs like that, leaned in for a kiss. It was short and sweet, but somehow he still felt out of breath when they pulled away.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” Aziraphale said. “I think I’d like that very much.” Then he turned his back, fished around his pocket for a key, and reached for the lock.

As soon as he saw the key heading towards the lock, something in Crowley’s head clicked. His pulse quickened, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and he knew he had to say something before Aziraphale walked away that night. He reached out to grab his wrist and pull him back.

“Wait.” 

Aziraphale faced him, confused.

“I—I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, dear boy?”

“You know you do this thing, angelface, where you’re talking about some dumb book or a crossword you just finished or some cup of tea you had or a goddamned puppy you saw on the street, and…” Crowley trailed off and licked his lips. He sighed and grit his teeth, pushing through every impulse in his body that was screaming at him to stop, to shut down his feelings. “…and your whole face just lights up like you’ve seen God or something. It’s—I don’t know. This is is so stupid of me.”

Aziraphale softened. “No, it’s okay. It’s not stupid. That’s a nice compliment.”

“I’m so fucking in love with you it kind of makes me sick,” Crowley blurted. He stuck his tongue out and shook his head. He felt a bit like he might barf. “Bah, didn’t like doing that at all,” he muttered, mostly to himself. His knees trembled as he searched Aziraphale for a reaction.

To his dismay, Aziraphale recoiled a bit, his body tensing.

“In love with me?” he said cautiously. “Did I hear you correctly? You’re… in love with me?”

“Um… yes?” Crowley said, hating how squeaky his voice sounded.

“Crowley, I—” Aziraphale stopped. He held a hand to his forehead. “I don’t even know what to think. I had a lovely time tonight, but up until a few months ago, we were at each other’s throats! How can you say you’re _in love with me_? This is all moving so fast, I can’t—”

Crowley’s stomach sank as he fumbled for the sunglasses that hung from his collar, putting them on despite the darkness; he wanted the cover, didn’t want Aziraphale to see how hurt he was. “I don’t know. It just felt right,” he said bitterly. “I guess I’m the bloody idiot in this situation who decided to have feelings.”

Aziraphale gave him a pained look. He touched a hand to his heart and sighed. “No, it’s just… you’re going too fast for me, Crowley,” he said. The key was back in his hand, and he reached behind to unlock the door. “I don’t—I need to—I need to think. I have to go.”

“Wait, Aziraphale!”

But he had already turned the knob and was halfway inside when Crowley had half a mind to pull him back. And then it was just Crowley, standing alone on that balcony, no one but the night breeze and the sounds of traffic below for company.

* * *

Aziraphale hardly slept the night after their evening at The Ritz. He had tried his damndest, of course—he drank his nighttime cup of tea, swallowed a capsule of melatonin, and put on his fuzziest slippers—but none of it could subside the ache that had taken up residence in his chest since Crowley confessed his love for him. So he sat in bed for hours, trying and failing to complete a crossword puzzle, in the hopes that it would calm him enough to fall asleep.

As the sun rose, he rubbed his bleary eyes and lay in bed for a long while, something he almost never did. He sighed. Then he rolled over and picked up the receiver to the old phone on his end table and dialed a number. It rang a few times before Anathema finally picked up.

“Aziraphale? Why on earth are you calling me at this hour?” she groaned. As a naturally nocturnal person, Anathema didn’t enjoy being woken up early. “Aren’t you normally up singing to the birds or whatever it is morning people like you do?”

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you,” he said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts. “But I could use some company today, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”

Anathema’s tone softened. “Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Down in the shop, Anathema was waiting for him with a croissant and a cup of tea. She handed them to him without a word and gave him a look like one might give a sad, lonely child out in the rain. He thanked her, tearing off a piece of the croissant as he did so. But he didn’t feel very hungry that morning, so he just held it between his fingers.

“Okay,” she finally said. “What’s going on? You’ve got to give me something here.”

And so Aziraphale told her the whole sad story, beginning with their rendezvous in the storage room and ending with Crowley’s confession. As he did so, he had the distinct sensation that he’d made an idiot of himself and that Anathema, when his story was over, would promptly give him a good smack upside the head. Not that he wouldn’t deserve such a thing. But when he finished, Anathema just walked over and put an arm around his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat. 

“Oh, Aziraphale. What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Aziraphale shot her a sideways glance. “Yes, I’m quite aware it’s a mess. Very helpful.”

“Sorry, sorry, just trying to be comforting.”

“No, no, I’m the one who should be sorry. Of course you only mean the best,” Aziraphale said, giving her as much of a smile as he could muster. He ate the piece of croissant he’d been holding and found it was delicious; she knew his favorite comfort foods so well. “I just don’t have the slightest clue what I’m supposed to do about this situation. I like Crowley, as insane as that sounds, but, well… is it fair to him to continue our relationship if I’m not in love with him? I feel as though it’s all been a bit fast for me.”

“Did you tell him that?” Anathema said. She was now rubbing soothing circles on his upper back. Aziraphale thought with affection that she would make an excellent mother someday, when the time came for her and Newt[19]

“Yes!” Aziraphale paused. “Well, not so much ‘had a rational conversation’ as ‘I freaked out and panicked and ran outside before I told him we needed to talk more.’”

Anathema froze. A few seconds later, she smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“That’s for being an idiot,” she said. “Now, what you’re going to do is go over to his shop and have an adult, rational—” She stopped, distracted by something happening outside the shop. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale said.

Anathema shook her head. “Look for yourself.”

Aziraphale stepped towards the window. Across the street, Crowley and Adam emerged from the shop, carrying tools, a ladder, and a large banner. Crowley’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, half his face hidden behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale could tell he hadn’t brushed his hair in a while. He and Adam stopped just outside the entrance so that Crowley could set up a small stepladder and climb to the top. Then Adam handed Crowley a hammer, which he used to nail down the corners of the banner to hang above the door. When he finished, he stepped down from the ladder and looked up. Next to him, Adam stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped and his hands in his pockets. Aziraphale squinted to read the sign through the glass. And when he finally made it out, he gasped and reached a hand to tug at his hair, lightheaded and dizzy.

“FOR SALE.”

Crowley was putting his store up for sale. He was leaving.

And it was because of him—he just knew it had to be.

The London streets seemed to close in on him, and a sudden feeling as though he needed to get as far away as possible consumed him. He told Anathema he had to close up shop at once and practically pushed her out the door with a look of confusion still on her face. Then he locked the door, grabbed his keys from his flat upstairs, and slipped into the car he hadn’t driven for months. His hands shook on the wheel and his feet trembled on the brakes, but he settled in once he’d revved the engine and started moving. Through the streets of London he drove[20], past the city limits and far into the countryside, where the only things there to greet him were the quiet roads, the hum of the engine, and the steady beat of his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18Crowley’s legendary skincare routine contained enough products to rival any beauty blogger on Youtube.[return to text]
> 
> 19Due to her famous occultist great-grandmother’s predictions, Anathema already knew that her and Newt were to have three children—two boys and one girl—along with five cats and an unusually large iguana. She intended on raising all her children in the family trade and had already prepared a “baby’s first tarot card deck” for the occasion.[return to text]
> 
> 20Driving at a steady 56 kilometers per hour, which placed him in the same category of drivers as panicked schoolchildren just learning the rules of the road and the elderly.[return to text]


	8. Let There Be Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And God said, Let there be light, and also two idiots in love who finally learn how to talk about their feelings.

Boxes, that was the thing about moving—there were always so many fucking boxes. Like Crowley was storing away an entire life he’d built, even in the short time he’d been living in London, and sealing it off. But that was the goal, wasn’t it? To ignore the pain he felt whenever he looked out the window and across the street? So, he continued to pack his boxes slowly over the days following the night at The Ritz, ignoring the growing sadness in his heart. 

As he worked, he ran a hand through his tangled hair, thinking to himself for the twentieth time that afternoon that he should really take a brush to it and also that he should probably change out of the outfit he’d worn for the past few days and put on something cleaner. But all of these actions seemed to Crowley as if they would take more energy than he could afford to expend, so he avoided them.

The door opened and in walked Adam. 

“Mister Crowley, do you need any help today?”

Adam’s impromptu visits had been happening since Crowley first made his decision to sell the shop; every couple hours or so, Adam would stop by and ask to help out with packing boxes. This was the most helpful and polite he’d been since Crowley first hired him, and yet he turned the kid away every time, afraid to face the reality that he was leaving him behind too.

“No, I’m alright, Adam,” he said. “I can handle things myself.”

“Right.” Adam bowed his head and scuffed the floor with his foot. “Sure.” He looked so dejected that Crowley’s guilt won out, and he decided that he would let him stay. Just this once. 

“Actually,” he said. “You can help me sort through those plants over there.” The plants in question were a group of ferns he’d thought would be a hit with his customers, but had been one of the least popular items in his shop. 

Adam brightened instantly, making his way towards the ferns. Aside from Crowley’s instructions on where to move and pack the items, he and Adam worked in silence, which was just fine by him. But this also left Crowley alone with thoughts that grew more troubled as he continued to pack items. Scenes from that night—The Ritz, the soft lights, the way Aziraphale had smiled, and then how it all came crashing down so horribly—ran through his mind over and over again. 

“Mister Crowley,” Adam said timidly (which was the first time he had ever said anything in such a manner). “Can I ask why you’re leaving?”

Crowley knew he shouldn’t be running from his problems, but the thought of waking up every day and being forced to constantly see the only person he’d ever fallen in love with, knowing that he didn’t return his feelings, well… it was almost unbearable to imagine. No, people like Crowley ran when given the opportunity. Why linger in places and on people that were only going to hurt him?

Not feeling like explaining his complex emotional state to an eleven-year-old, he settled for, “It’s complicated.”

Adam nodded, and to Crowley’s surprise, decided to keep his mouth shut and not ask any further questions. “I understand, Mister Crowley.”

“Thanks, Adam.”

They worked the rest of the afternoon in a comfortable quiet. Then, after they were finished, Crowley shocked even himself by offering to take Adam to the ice cream shop down the road. Adam ordered the chocolate, Crowley got the mint chocolate chip. They took their cones and walked out onto the sidewalk, sitting side by side on a bench to watch the people go by and gently mock them. And when Crowley returned to his now-empty shop, his heart felt just a little bit lighter.

* * *

The curtains in the room were too thin, and the scratchy yellow fabric did little to block the blinding sunlight from shining right in Aziraphale’s face on his third day outside London. He groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm. 

“Oh, blast,” he said to no one in particular.

He hadn’t intended to stay as long as he had in the countryside when he’d first left the city. He just kept driving until he reached a small inn off the side of the road, the sign nearly hidden by trees around it. Then he’d walked in, greeted the enthusiastic man behind the counter who looked as though he hadn’t seen a customer in about a decade, and gotten himself a room for a few days. At least when he was away from London and that damned street corner, he could forget about the fact that he had royally screwed up the closest thing he’d had to a relationship in a long time.

He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to go back to sleep, but all he could see was that damned “FOR SALE” sign burning a hole in his mind. So, he opened them again and rolled over to flip the switch on the lamp beside his bed. It flickered a few times before finally turning on, filling the room with dim light. Then he pulled the covers off and rose slowly to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. His back popped, and he sighed. At least it was a gorgeous day outside. It had rained the day prior, and Aziraphale thought it might be good to get some sunshine. 

The road from the motel was long and winding, with few cars in sight. Hands shoved in his pockets, he shuffled alongside fields interspersed with thick rows of trees, until he eventually found an open meadow with rows and rows of vibrant flowers. Aziraphale walked through the meadow, the tall grass tickling his ankles, until he reached the center and stood to let the rays warm his face. A stillness and peace came over him that he hadn’t experienced since he’d left London, and as Aziraphale watched the sun dance along the wildflowers and the treetops, he couldn’t help but think to himself, _I wish Crowley were here to see this._

If he were there, Aziraphale supposed Crowley would probably make some barb about the sun being too strong. But then he’d later admit that the meadow was really rather beautiful and that it was a nice day to be outside. After that, he might have teased Aziraphale for a bit, with that cocky smile on his face, and—

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

He pulled out the phone in his pocket and typed in a number as quickly as he could, sending a silent prayer up to the heavens that he had cell signal even out in the country. Anathema picked up after a couple rings.

“Aziraphale? Everything okay?” she said. “You know, nobody really calls people anymore. You could just text me if you—”

“I think I’m in love with him.”

“Pardon? You’re what now?”

Aziraphale swallowed, the phone shaking in his hand. He looked out into that field again, and he wasn’t sure if it was the light or the insane amount of stress he’d been under recently, but he thought he saw Crowley standing out in the meadow, beckoning to him. He wore that smile Aziraphale had just been thinking about, teasing but not unkind, and his heart skipped a beat. Then he had to stop himself from being a crazy person and sprinting out into the meadow to meet the mirage his delirium conjured.

“Crowley. I’m in love with him, and I’ve been so stupid about it, and I’m afraid I’ve already bungled this whole thing beyond repair,” he said.

“Yes, you have, in fact, been a massive idiot,” Anathema said. “But I don’t think it’s too late to fix it. You should—”

Aziraphale didn’t even let her finish. In that moment, he suddenly knew what he had to do.

“I have to go.”

He hung up and started to walk back through the fields with purpose, pumping his arms as hard as he could. Once at the motel, he packed up the meager belongings he’d brought, rushed down to the lobby, and handed over his key with gusto, insisting to the dejected manager that he had something very important to take care of. Then he climbed into his car, heart pounding as he started the ignition, and headed towards London, to the street corner where it had all begun.

* * *

On his way home, Aziraphale drove at speeds that shocked not only himself, but the other drivers on the road, who frequently changed lanes to get out of his way. The wind whipped through the open window beside him, and he breathed in the fresh air, watching the trees whiz past. Gradually, the forests began to thin out, and streets, sidewalks, and buildings came into view as he entered the city limits. 

As he parked outside Crowley’s shop, rain began to fall in fat drops despite the still-shining sun. He stepped out of the car and gawked up at the sky, marveling at the wonder of a sun shower, something he hadn’t seen in London for years. The water soaked his jacket and flattened his hair, and he pushed some of it out of his forehead before remembering what he was there to do. He dashed across the street and shoved open the door to Crowley’s shop, nearly knocking over a stray plant[21] by the entrance in his haste.

“I’m in need of a florist,” he proclaimed.

Crowley froze. He appeared to be in the middle of rearranging several boxes. In fact, the entire store was filled with them, and the cold and empty shelves wracked Aziraphale with guilt. This is your fault, he thought. He’s leaving because of you. But he shoved those thoughts away and did his best to look like he wasn’t panicking on the inside.

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley picked up a box on the floor and slammed it on the counter, refusing to look at Aziraphale. “Well, we’re closed for good. You must be having trouble with reading comprehension.”

“It’s—” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s rather urgent.”

For the first time since he’d arrived in the shop, Crowley looked at him. “What’s the occasion?” he said bitterly.

Aziraphale wrung his hands and tried to maintain eye contact with Crowley as much as possible, resisting the urge to stare down at the ground and hope he would melt into a puddle of shame. “Erm, well, do you have a bouquet that screams, I’m in love with my former business rival, and he was in love with me too, but I rejected him and I really hope it’s not too late?”

Crowley exhaled, a sharp sound through his nose, and the scowl on his face eased just a little. 

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” he muttered, teeth ground together. “I swear to fucking God, Aziraphale, don’t say it if you—” He broke off, rubbing a hand over his forehead and letting out an exasperated groan.

Aziraphale’s heart twisted as he watched Crowley, who kept his gaze down at the floor, and saw the pain on his face. He realized, in that moment, just how badly he had hurt him. He had no idea how he would make it right again, but he knew he had to start by being truthful. He walked up to Crowley and placed his fingers under his chin, gently lifting his head and forcing their gazes to meet.

“I do. I do mean it, and I’m so sorry,” he said, softly, quietly. “I love you. I’m in love with you, and I want to be with you.”

Crowley looked away and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know if I can trust you. After what happened,” he said. 

Aziraphale’s heart sank as he pulled back. He blinked to get rid of the tears that had begun to gather in his eyes. “I understand, dear boy. I do.” 

He turned quickly so Crowley wouldn’t see him cry and started to walk away, trying to leave as quickly as he could before he completely broke down.

A hand reached out to grab Aziraphale, fingers encircling his wrist.

“But… that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.”

Aziraphale looked back to see Crowley gazing at him in earnest. He’d taken his sunglasses off so that they dangled from his free hand, and his eyes were soft around the edges. His fingers were warm, his grasp firm, and he pulled Aziraphale closer to him as if reeling him in. When they were just inches apart, Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, whose breath came in short, shallow spurts.

“Are you sure? You want to take me back?” Aziraphale said, his words rushed and jumbled. “And you won’t leave?”

“Oh, for chrissake, angelface, I just—I just said that,” Crowley said, half-laughing. Then he yanked Aziraphale in by the collar to press their lips together.

Their mouths fit together as if nothing had ever gone wrong between the two of them, like it was meant to be this way all along. Aziraphale ran his thumbs along both Crowley’s cheeks as they kissed, feeling the soft skin there, before moving up to run his fingers through long, red hair. He sighed contentedly and sank deeper into Crowley, wanting, just this once, to lose himself in someone else.

Aziraphale, despite his innocent and romantic approach to everything in life, had never been a big believer in all those cliches about love. That when it finally found him, it would feel like a flock of soaring eagles in his heart or like someone had completed him. But what he did feel, as he kissed Crowley that day, was a sensation not unlike a glow around his heart. Like Crowley had reached in and eased whatever aches he had inside, leaving nothing but sunshine and a dazed sort of happiness in his wake. 

When they finally broke apart, Crowley hummed and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s chest. His sweater was still a little damp from the rain, and Crowley remarked with his trademark teasing tone, “What, you take a dip in St. James’ Park before coming here?”

Aziraphale just laughed, then grabbed the sides of Crowley’s face to pull him in for another kiss. And as they embraced, in that shop on the street corner that had started it all, Aziraphale had the distinct sensation that yes, everything was going to be quite alright.

* * *

“Angelface, get up. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Aziraphale groaned, the comforting bubble of having just woken up from a lovely, deep sleep now burst. He pulled the covers tighter around himself, hoping he could perhaps hide from Crowley underneath the duvet and relax just a little while longer.

“Crowley, it’s—” He opened an eye to glance at the alarm clock by Crowley’s bedside. “Six in the morning.”

Crowley, who leaned over the bed, reached his thumbs out to pull Aziraphale’s eyelids up. Aziraphale smacked his hands away.

“I thought you were the morning person?” Crowley said. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lying this whole time.”

A cold draft fell over Aziraphale as Crowley pulled back the covers and insisted once more that he get up. Aziraphale groaned again, but obliged this time, swinging his legs over the side and rising to his feet. He stretched his arms over his head, knowing that it would irritate the increasingly-impatient Crowley, who tapped his foot.

“I haven’t been lying about that, I was just very content this morning is all!” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear his still-blurry vision as he stumbled after Crowley, who was now traipsing across the living room and towards the front door. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Crowley stopped and turned around. “Do I need to explain the concept of a surprise to you?”

“I suppose not.”

The sun had only just begun to rise as they left Crowley’s flat, the sky a perfect blend of red and pink. After Aziraphale had returned to the shop and confessed his mutual feelings to Crowley, the latter had purchased a shop space and flat in a different section of London, away from that street corner. While part of Aziraphale missed being able to see Crowley more easily when they were neighbors, it certainly made things easier in that they were no longer competitors, and it had brought an easy peace to their relationship since then.

Crowley led him through the back streets of his new neighborhood, stopping five blocks from their shops. They stood outside a greenhouse nestled among a row of other greenhouses tucked behind a side street.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “What is this?” he said. “I had no idea this place even existed. And I’ve been living in London for eleven years!”

“This is my greenhouse,” Crowley said. “I rent the space to keep spare plants alive during the winter and sometimes to practice growing them. So it’s… grown into a bigger garden than expected since I’ve been living here.”

Aziraphale looked at him softly. “Sounds wonderful,” he said, grabbing Crowley’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Shall we go inside?”

Crowley nodded and unlocked the door with his free hand before tugging Aziraphale in after him. Inside the greenhouse, the air was warm and muggy, pressing down on both of them. But the flowers—oh, the flowers and plants were just lovely, Aziraphale thought. Myriads and bursts of colored petals, plants of different lengths and shapes and leaf patterns. Water trickled and bubbled from the mouth of a beautiful stone fountain Crowley had placed in the center of his garden.

“Oh, Crowley, this is beautiful.”

Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, who had been watching him the whole time, gauging his reaction. At his compliment, Crowley smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Glad you like it,” he said. “Thought it might be a nice surprise or whatever.”

“It’s more than nice.”

Crowley led him to a stone bench nestled between the daisies and the tulips. Aziraphale noted with pleasure that they were the same daisies he kept in his own flat. They sat next to one another in a peaceful quiet for a while, Aziraphale studying the different flowers and committing them to memory, hoping he could one day cultivate a garden even half as nice. His leg was warm where it pressed up against Crowley’s, and his heart felt full.

“We’ve come a long way since we met, haven’t we?” Aziraphale finally said. “Yes, quite a long way.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, I still remember when I thought you were an insufferable, stuffy prick.”

“Yes, I remember when I thought you were probably one of the most obnoxious human beings on the planet.” Aziraphale paused. “And a complete and utter bastard.”

“Ah, but that’s what you love about me,” Crowley said, that cocky grin back once more.

“Oh, shut up.”

But Aziraphale was grinning as he said it. With a smile still on his face, he caressed Crowley’s cheek before pulling him in for a kiss, soft and sweet, that sent his stomach into a storm of butterflies. When he pulled away, Crowley watched him with a gentle expression. Then for a long time they sat side by side and hand in hand, inhaling the sweet smells of a thousand beautiful flowers at once[22].

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 21This plant, rather coincidentally, happened to be the flower of the _Protea Cynaroides_ that Aziraphale had pointed out the very first time he visited Crowley’s shop. This is a fact Aziraphale would later recount in stories of how he and Crowley’s relationship began, much to the chagrin of the relatives who had heard said story no less than fifty times at various family gatherings.[return to text]
> 
> 22As to whether they lived happily ever after, dear reader, the narrator of this story (and its footnotes) will leave up to you to decide.[return to text]
> 
> If you've reached the end, thank you so much for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed watching these two hopeless idiots try to figure it out as much as I enjoyed writing them :) Thank you all very much for your kudos, bookmarks, subs, and kind words. It's been an absolute pleasure to work on this fic, and your support has meant the world to me!

**Author's Note:**

> Shout to the awesome [mimosa-supernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova) for helping me beta this story! You rock and also help me do the words thing better.


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